Joker's Song
by Platinim13
Summary: Post TDK - Non-Canon Harley/Bruce/Joker "If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die." Shakespeare. Harley was the music to Joker's madness, but even when he's gone, the music remains.
1. Haunted

**A/N:** Based on some feedback, I thought a little additional background might be helpful. I believe, in Nolan-verse, Joker would not put up with the Harley we know and love from BTAS, so I've created a different Harley. She is still an inexperienced psychologist, but that is where the similarity largely ends; her demeanor is less volatile, and her perspectives are more malleable; geared towards whatever her circumstances demand. Ultimately, she's an observer and can mold herself into whatever she needs to be... which has kept her alive, but has taken its toll.

This story picks up two years after the events in TDK, and six months after Joker's presumed death. In those two years Harley met, fell in love with, and was "left" by Joker, who mysteriously sent Batman to find Harley six months ago.

Drop me a line - let me know what you think, as long as its constructive :-)

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**PROLOGUE**

She stood on the rooftop, admiring the dark, tree lined streets below; a rare sight in Gotham. She'd never have recognized the wealth of this neighborhood on first glance; only subtle things like well lit streets, empty alleyways, and many large, old trees gave hints, and you had to really stop and look to pick up on them. She'd noticed when Bruce first brought her here, but too quickly was caught up in dinner, and sex, and darkness. She'd been so angry, and so alone, when she'd walked down that street; too absorbed in her own problems to really take a good look around. But that first glance stuck with her, and she'd wanted to come back if she was ever free to be in the city again. She rested her arms on the rooftop ledge and stood on her tiptoes, leaning over as far as she could without feeling precarious, and then pushed just a little more. She wanted to stand on the ledge and feel the breeze wrap around her; the breeze seduced her and she wanted to let it take her away. She wanted to, but couldn't; always her fear standing in her way. It didn't matter that she'd fall to her death, she wasn't afraid of dying, only of the pain right before hand, but she was afraid it was too soon, that there were things she'd miss out on in her life. She wasn't ready to give up for no other than reason than curiosity; her life had swung from pointlessly boring to dangerously exciting, and she was afraid it was heading back towards boring. But still, the little voice inside her head whispered _But you never know what might happen tomorrow..._; hope was a nasty affliction on the human psyche and yet it still had sway over her.

She also cursed her mortality; not that she wanted to live forever, but that she could only make the decision to jump once, and she wanted to jump over and over again. She wanted to fly free, to just disappear into thin air, to escape everything that tied her down and held her back: like mortality... like fear. She wanted to know what it was like to decide to jump and then do it; she wanted to know what it was like to have the power to end your own life. She imagined that flying would feel like swimming, only better, less cumbersome and weighty, like zero gravity or having no body to weigh you down... like being a ghost. Maybe that's what she really wished for, to a be ghost, free to float through time and space at only her whim, invincible in her intangibility yet still have consciousness. To go anywhere, at any time, and do anything she wanted, no restraints, no consequences. That was real freedom.

The rooftop looked exactly like she remembered, only without the dining table this time, and the only troubling things were the shadows lurking behind her. The same shadows in the towering garden that had taken over Bruce and turned him inside out. She could feel them staring at her like a living being, and she slid back from the ledge and turned to face them. They were another form of freedom: freedom to face your fears, to let go of your restraints and join the monsters that lived in the dark. They were the shadows behind her eyes; they were the shadows she saw in Bruce... and in J. Suddenly she missed J with a pain she hadn't felt in a blissful while, a pain that Bruce had been keeping away despite battling his own demons, and that pain drew her into the shadows once again, as if they held the morphine to her cancer. She slipped into the shadows and let them wash over her; she breathed them in and felt them flow through her veins, she closed her eyes and let them consume her. As if led, she found the bench with ease and laid down on her back, fully exposed to the shadows. It was as close to jumping off the ledge as she would come tonight, and she held a dark hope that she might loose her mortality to the shadows.

He watched her lean over the edge of the building, watched her face relax the further along the ledge she got, and smiled when she got the empty look in her eye, like she'd disappeared. Her whole body shuddered, and she turned back to admire the darkness; he recognized the desire as well, and grinned when she walked straight into the dark garden and let it swallow her whole. Silently he crept forward, sliding along the brick planters, completely hidden in the darkness, yet able to see her clearly. He came within feet of her prone body, just steps from being able to touch her, to pull her back into the darkness with him, and he slowly reached out a hand then stopped, tracing the outline of her body in the air with his fingertip. Her scent mixed in the breeze and floated back to him, and he felt his body respond, relaxed and focused at the same time; he hummed quietly to himself in pleasure.

The breeze washed over her in waves, and if she concentrated, she could block out the cold cement beneath her back and almost feel like she was floating along the stream of air. The breeze carried the scent of the old oaks on the street, the dust of the city, the flowers in the garden; it whispered music in her air, so faint she knew it was her imagination, but it felt like it was outside of her, pulling her along. If she tried very hard, she could turn that music into her music, a melody born from her own soul, and she started to sing softly along with the breeze.

She started to sing and he stopped humming, blocking out all other sounds but her voice. It drew him in, surrounded his mind and released him from all the reckless and wild thoughts that normally consumed him. This is why he'd come in the first place, all those years ago; this is why he kept coming back. He instinctively swayed with familiar the notes, his blood flowed with the rhythm, and he closed his eyes; something he rarely wanted to do. He relished being so close and yet unknown; he could take everything she gave him without the why's and the how's and the expectations. No, whether she realized it or not, she came here for him, to give him this piece of herself that he craved and she would not be asking for anything in return. It was a perfect arrangement, for now.

"Harley?"

She stopped singing, and he growled under his breath, stopping only when he saw her shudder in response. He had always had that effect on her, and he smiled knowing she was thinking about him and not the arrogant prick that had just interrupted her. Idly, he wondered why he'd never blown up Wayne Enterprises before, and considered the opportunity he had at this very moment. But he was a patient man, and he had too many things yet to do, so for now, he slunk silently back into the shadows and watched for her response, which never came. He raised a brow, curious, and irritatingly pleased by her reluctance to give him up.

"Harley?"

The prick was dressed in a designer suit, had perfectly coiffed hair and a soft voice, all of which he wanted to mess up just to see how the pampered billionaire would handle it. He grinned, thinking of the fun, and then grinned more when he realized she still hadn't responded, even though the prick was coming into the garden now. He stepped back further, behind a plant, and just for a second thought the prick had seen him; he was disappointed when Bruce Wayne stopped in front the of the bench, obviously no more aware of his presence then he was of his own ass.

Bruce knelt down next to Harley, and brushed the hair from her eyes, not wanting to disturb her when she finally looked so peaceful. She pressed her face into his hand, but didn't open her eyes; he wondered if she had fallen asleep.

"MMmm. Bruce, I'm not ready to leave, I just want to stay here."

Bruce pulled her up to a sitting position, then sat next to her, pulling her into his arms and resting her head against his shoulder. She tucked her arms around his waist and settled in, letting herself fall back into semi-awareness. "We don't have to leave."

The prick had a sweet mouth, and he rolled his eyes, restraining himself from smacking his lips out loud and then punching the man in the face. She'd gone soft in the last few months; she'd never expected that kind of comfort from him. He wanted to giggle at just the idea, but stifled that as well, and then turned to leave before he puked on all the saccharine sweetness coming from the prick's mouth. Of course his muse would eat that up, she was a woman after all, but he was 'pretty' sure she didn't fall for anything that easily. Well, let her get as much as she can now, because her time with Bruce Wayne was running short; she had a purpose and it was almost time for her to get back to it. When he was well out of earshot, he whistled the tune from earlier, grinning widely as he imagined Bruce Wayne's face when Joker came to get his muse.


	2. Shell Game

**(Penthouse balcony – mid-evening)**

"What is it with your fascination with throwing yourself off rooftops?"

Harley glanced at him and rolled her eyes, then went back to leaning over the edge.

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if I throw myself off one of these short buildings..."

"That's not funny."

She smirked. "Oh come on, I was just kidding... mostly." She peered over the edge again, and nodded towards the ground. "Falling from this height would do some serious damage and it wouldn't be fun right now anyway."

Bruce raised both brows and shoved his hands in his pockets. "…fun? I don't know how it would ever be fun..."

She sighed. "I know it's not fun-_ny_, especially after Harvey's fundraiser, but I can't help being fascinated with it. I'd try to hide it from you, but what would be the point?"

He exhaled slowly and pinched his eyes shut, then tried to relax. "Were you always fascinated by heights?"

She squinted one eye and idly rubbed her thumb over her lips, thinking. "Not by heights, just flying."

He gestured over the edge. "But that's not flying... you remember gravity, right?"

She mock glared at him, then leaned on the ledge and gestured in the air. "Well, blame Batman then. He flies around all the time... god, that would be fantastic!"

He blinked at her, then shook his head, "... he doesn't fly..."

She waved his comment off. "Semantics. He jumps off skyscrapers, he literally drops in on criminals... hell, he even managed to drive that car...tank... thing over the rooftops."

He looked skeptical. "So you think that would be... fun?"

She nodded yes, enthusiastically.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Why wouldn't it be fun? I mean, if I jumped off this roof, I have nothing to catch me or break my fall... but he has all those toys; he probably doesn't even worry about falling anymore."

Bruce frowned. "They aren't... toys..."

She smirked. "Yes they are... expensive man-toys!"

"I'm sure he worries about falling..."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed out loud. "Please, if he did, he wouldn't jump, right? I mean, he still has to have brass balls the size of a small town, even with his toys, but..."

Bruce started to laugh and tried covering it, unsuccessfully, with a cough. He grinned at her, matching her pose, leaning against the railing. "So, does that mean _you_ have brass balls the size of… "

She interrupted, "Hey, hey, now. I'd like to go with him sometime, though." She sighed, wistfully. "If Batman was a carnival attraction, I'd ride that ride all night long."

Bruce raised both brows again, mouth opening slightly, and then he started laughing out loud, not even trying to cover it up.

She tried to mock offense, but couldn't hold out for more than a second before she started laughing along with him, and just as hard. She managed to choke out a few words. "I didn't even.. mean it... like.. that!" But she couldn't get more than that out before succumbing to the laughter all over again.

Finally, Bruce managed to get control of himself, but still burst out in the occasional chuckle. "So, you're saying if Batman comes along and offers you a... ride... its 'Bruce who?' and off you go?"

She giggled, and punched him lightly in the arm. "Maybe… Why? Jealous?"

He smirked. "Maybe…"

She jumped over to him and hugged him tightly, waiting a few seconds for him to wrap his arms around her. "Aw, don't worry; I'd make him bring me back eventually."

Bruce scoffed in amusement. "Gee, thanks." He paused, resting his chin on her head. "I guess that means I don't have to worry about you jumping without Batman around then, right?"

She squeezed him harder and he pretended to choke. "Very funny, but no, I won't be jumping without attaching myself to Batman."

"Out of curiosity, how would you do that?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I could claw on for dear life if I had to." She smiled into his chest, digging in her nails for effect.

"But he has that suit..."

"Hm, true... well, if all else fails, there's always duct-tape. If it's good enough for airplanes, it's good enough for me."

Bruce started chuckling again, but instead of joining him, she leaned into his chest more tightly, enjoying the way it rumbled in her ear. "If you ever duct tape yourself to Batman, just to for a ride, he'd have every right to take you to Arkham."

"You're no fun!"

"And you're crazy."

"Hey, duct taping myself to Batman isn't crazy, it just _looks_ crazy! Come on, aren't you the least bit curious about what Gotham looks like from his point of view? I mean, flying through the city like that... it's got to be amazing!"

"You know, I wonder if he ever takes the time to look..."

"I think he does. He wouldn't fight so hard for this insane town if he didn't love it."

"We all take things for granted though."

"Yes, we do. But I'm trying really hard not too. Take this for example; I would never have asked you to show me this side of the Penthouse, but I'm glad you did. The view from here is so beautiful..."

"If you like it, then I'm glad too." He stroked her hair. "So, is it beautiful enough that you can skip a ride on Batman?"

She pulled her head back and looked at him appraisingly. "That really bothers you?"

He made a noncommittal face, but she could see the tension around his eyes. "I guess it does, a little."

"Why?"

He looked down into her eyes. "Because I don't think he does any of it for fun... love for Gotham, probably, and a lot of other reasons, but not for fun."

"Fun is relative, isn't it? He has to like it, otherwise he wouldn't do it. It's not like he didn't have a choice about how he goes around every night fighting for Gotham. There have to be a million less jaw-droppingly daring ways to do it."

"Ok, I give up... I can see you've already made up your mind anyway." He shook his head, but his tone was soft.

She gently pulled away and stepped back, leaning against the railing again. "So, if I suddenly had the option to go flying off a building with Batman... lets assume it's a choice, not a necessity... would you be angry when I did it?"

"Would it stop you?"

"No, and you didn't answer my question."

"No, I wouldn't be mad." Resignation tinged with sadness echoed in his voice.

"Good. But it would hurt your feelings?" She was trying to makes sense of his reluctance.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then turned to face the railing and look out over the Gotham skyline. "No, it wouldn't hurt my feelings. I can see the attraction... I guess I just wished you didn't."

She leaned sideways against his shoulder, her head making the only contact between them. "Would it help if I said that I have no desire to go anywhere in Gotham, unless I'm with you or him?"

He reached out and arm and pulled her closer. "Yeah, actually it does." He looked over at her. "I know it's not fair to keep you locked up all the time; I know it must drive you crazy. I'll try to be better about getting you out of the house, ok?"

She stifled a discontented sigh. "I always feel like such an ungrateful bitch when we talk." She cut off his protest. "I know, or at least I'm pretty sure, you don't really see it like that, but its true. I mean, I know how much worse things could be, and yet I still complain about not having enough... enough freedom, enough things to do. I'm always having a private pity party for one; I'm sorry for that. I'm sure it's a real joy to be around."

"Oh come on, you're not _always_ hard to be around." He smiled, and she nudged him with her head, then they both turned to take in the Gotham skyline for the few minutes they had left before they had to be on their way.

**(Earlier that day – Wayne Manor)**

"Can I help you with anything, miss?"

She startled; Alfred always managed to arrive silently, and she wondered if he got secret pleasure out of sneaking up on her. "Oh, no… well... ", she turned to him with a glint in her eye, "I don't suppose Bruce ever had one of those round, disc-style sleds when he was a kid, did he?"

"Of course, miss."

She smirked; of course he did. "Any chance its still around?"

"Ah, may I enquire as to why you're asking? There's no snow on the ground this time of year, as you know."

She grinned wickedly and gestured to the huge grand staircase. "Actually, I was contemplating how much fun it would be to ride it down these stairs!" She saw Alfred crack a smile for a second before it disappeared.

"You can take my word for it, miss, it's not as much fun as it would appear... although a few bruises and a broken wrist never stopped Master Wayne from trying it a few times."

Her jaw dropped in pleasant shock. "Really? Oh Alfred, please tell me you a have a video of this!"

"Sadly no, miss. Master Wayne has a habit of not giving any warning before he takes off on his grand adventures."

She sighed, dramatically. "So does that mean you'd recommend against riding a sled down the stairs?"

"Oh no, miss, it's out in the garage if you'd like it. But I'm afraid you'll have to fetch it yourself; its up in the attic and an old man like me just can't climb the ladder like I used to." He started to leave, then paused, "Just make sure if you do decide to sled down the stairs you give me some warning. I'll get the bandages ready." He smiled and headed towards the kitchen.

**(A few hours later)**

"She wanted to do what?"

"Sled down the stairs in the grand foyer is what, sir."

"Why?"

"Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten what fun you had doing that yourself, sir?"

"Alfred, I was ten, and I'd been cooped up all winter."

"Precisely, sir."

"She's not ten..."

"... but she has been cooped up for several months now. Six, to be precise."

"I've taken her out..."

"Three times, sir. And one of those did not go so well, if you recall."

Bruce sighed through the phone. "Well, I'm open to ideas if you have them... other than letting her break her arms riding the sled down the stairs. Do we even still have that sled?"

"Of course we do, Master Bruce. However, it's up in the garage attic and I told Miss Harleen she'd have to get it herself if she wanted it."

"... thanks, Alfred."

"You're welcome, Master Bruce. And might I suggest you take her out to the quieter parts of Gotham? Despite what you may think, there are nice places you've never seen before, where the media won't hound you. I recall several places, in fact, that your parents liked to go."

"Do you think she would like any of them? Never-mind, make reservations for tonight and get her something nice to wear."

"Very good, sir. Let's hope this time goes better than the last."

"Goodbye Alfred."

**(Early the next morning)**

"Ungh, hey! Wake-up" She rocked her shoulder back against him, try to awaken him without startling him.

He grumbled in response. "... uh... what..."

"You're squeezing me to death."

"What?" He relaxed his grip. "Oh, sorry. I think I was having a nightmare..."

She spun around in his arms. "Really… what about?"

He rubbed the sleep from one eye. "Actually, it was about Rachel, the night of the fundraiser..."

She hugged him. "I'm sorry I made you think of that."

He stroked her hair, eyes closed sleepily. "I haven't had a nightmare about that in a long time. I don't think it was you, just being on that side of the Penthouse again. Now that I have, I'll be ok."

"I'm not very good with this kind of stuff. My own nightmares are usually either like a horror movie, or a lifetime movie."

"What?"

"I mean, I'm either being chased by vampires or I'm fighting off crazy men in my bedroom because they want to kill me."

He furrowed a brow. "So, are your nightmares always about someone, or something, trying to kill you?"

"Yeah… every once in a while I have one that is just disturbing... where everything is real, but off just enough that I'm constantly looking over my shoulder waiting for the bad thing to happen."

"Do you ever have good dreams?"

"Um, not that I remember… and I usually remember my dreams, so I'd say probably not often." She smirked, and wriggled her hips intentionally against his. "Well, there is the occasional _really_ good dream..."

He opened his eyes calmly, then pulled her against him roughly. "Oh yeah? What are those like?"

"I'll show you..."

**(Late Afternoon – Wayne Manor)**

"Are you sure you don't want help?"

"No miss, I'm almost done with the kitchen anyway." She sighed. "Are you thinking about sledding the stairs again?"

"No... Can I tell you something Alfred?"

He wiped his hands on a towel, and sat down next to her on the dinette. "Of course, miss."

"I feel completely useless. Before now, I always had something to do, or some ... purpose, but now I'm just sitting around collecting dust."

"What would you like to do, miss?"

"Well, before... you know... I was an intern at Arkham; it didn't pay very much, but I managed. I was good at helping people, and when, uh, Joker showed up, it was like I had a reason to be good at what I did. Batman even wanted me to meet Bruce so I could help him deal with what Joker did, but with Bruce it's been the other way around, he's helped me instead, and I just feel... useless."

"Oh, I think you help Master Bruce, miss."

"I don't; I think I'm a side project from the rest of his life."

"And what were you to Joker, other than a side project?"

She thought about that for a minute, started to speak, then thought some more. "Maybe the difference is how involved I am. I always had to be careful around Joker; I couldn't say anything flippantly, he wouldn't put up with it. We either didn't talk, or had intense conversations where I had to really think about what I was saying before I said it. In a game of bullshit, Joker would win before the game even started; there was no bullshit allowed."

"I thought the Joker didn't have rules."

She grimaced. "He didn't. He always tried to trick me into a game of bullshit, especially early on, when he was just looking for a reason to kill me."

"But you didn't play the game?"

"Not exactly; I just never lied to him." Alfred just raised his eyebrows and she nodded, solemnly. "It's as hard as it sounds. There were times he was just waiting for me to be afraid of him, to be repulsed by him, so when I felt that fear, or revulsion, I just shut it down. It was the only way to avoid provoking him, and not lie, at the same time."

"That sounds incredibly difficult miss. It can't be good to shut down your feelings like that."

She shrugged. "I guess I had enough practice as a kid that I could make myself do it when I needed to."

"He never threatened you?"

"Oh, he threatened me a lot, but it never got any further than that, and after a while, he really didn't threaten me much anymore."

"That's quite a story miss."

"Yeah, well, you see how different it is with Bruce? He told me he was having trouble dealing with Rachel Dawes' death and he thought maybe knowing what I knew about Joker might help. But you know, I think I'm her substitute now; like if he can make me normal after what I've been through, it's the next best thing to her being alive again."

"And if that _did_ help him?"

"How long could that last though? I'll never be her, he can't bring her back and it wasn't his fault she died in the first place. I don't want to be a placeholder... there has to be a way I can really get through to him; really help him." She threw up her hands and sat back in her chair, rubbing her temple, then laughed. "With Joker, it was a lot easier; I just had to keep him entertained and not loose his games of bullshit. I don't even know what Bruce really needs, much less how to give it to him."

Alfred sat up straight and clasped his hands together on the table. "You may see yourself as just a side project, but I see it a different way. Master Bruce has spent his whole life with nobody to worry about except himself. Of course there's the business and his charity work for all of Gotham, but that's not as tangible as taking care of another person. Let me ask you a question, miss." She nodded. "Do you like Master Wayne?" She frowned at the vague question. "As a person, do you like him?"

"Yes, I really do. He's perceptive, when he wants to be, intelligent, funny and genuinely caring. He asked me once if I trusted him, and despite the other night, I really do. I don't think he'd intentionally do anything that would hurt me, and I think he would go out of his way to make sure no one, or nothing, else does either."

"But you think he's protecting you out of a sense of pity?"

She blew out a huge breath, surprised at Alfred's bluntness. "I... I don't know. "

Alfred smiled. "I think Master Bruce genuinely likes you too, miss, even the parts he doesn't understand. And he's not used to being liked for just himself..."

"He might be, if he let anyone else get to know him."

"Too true, miss, too true. But the fact remains, he may feel responsible for keeping you safe, but its about time he learned what it means to have a connection with someone. He holds people at arms length for his own protection, and theirs. And you'll pardon me saying so miss, while he may be afraid of the impact his obligations might have on someone else, I think since he knows your last relationship was with the Joker, he has nowhere to go but up."

She laughed. "Well, I guess you're right about that. He can rest pretty easy that my expectations are fairly low from the men in my life." She shook her head, smiling. "You know, I should be insulted by that, but it's too funny that Bruce is so insecure he needs someone with my history to take the pressure off. I never think of Bruce as insecure."

"Well, he's stubborn and maybe a bit too confident about some things, for sure miss, but he's a person, just like the rest of us."

She got up and hugged Alfred, then sat back down again. "Thank you Alfred. I don't know if I should, but I feel better."

"You're welcome miss."

"But I still can't just sit around here all the time staring at the walls. Trust me, nothing good happens when I have too much time to sit around and think."

"Are you good with computers miss?"

"Good... how?"

"Oh you know, collecting information, that sort of thing."

"I'm a research-a-holic to the point of obsession when I get interested in something... does that count?"

"Well, it sounds like we'll have to find something to interest you then, won't we?"

**(Later that night, in the batcave)**

"No."

"If you don't, she'll do it on her own. Wouldn't you rather direct her energies to something productive?"

"Of course, but can't she take up ballroom dancing, or learn French... something that doesn't involve dangerous criminals?" Bruce continued to type on the computer system, not looking away from the monitors.

"Unfortunately sir, she does seem to be attracted to extreme personalities." Alfred gave Bruce a pointed look; Bruce returned the look with a short glare, then sat back in his chair and slowly spun to face Alfred.

"She's not a criminal profiler."

"No, but she wanted to be, and she did live with a very intelligent criminal for several years. I think she might have a perspective you don't... she did mention that's why you met her in the first place."

"But there isn't a person to have a perspective on, not yet. We don't know who's behind this, or what their ultimate plan is. Besides, she's told me several times that Joker never shared his plans with her; she never knew what he was up to until he was in the middle of it."

"It can't hurt to try, Master Bruce. I don't think she's the type to jump into the fray like someone else I can mention, so I don't think it puts her in harms way."

Bruce rubbed his eyes, tiredly. "What if she starts thinking too much about Batman... "

"What conclusions do you think she'd draw?"

"I don't know, but if I'm out when he's out... I'm injured when he's injured... it wouldn't take too long for her to put two and two together, and that _would_ put her in harm's way."

"That's a risk you took the first day you went to the Penthouse, sir, no use in pretending like it isn't."

Bruce looked irritated, and miserable. "Well, I can't just go over there and say 'hey, you mind looking into these joker crimes… you know, just for fun…'"

"I'm sure you'll think of something, sir. You always do."

**(Next night)**

"I have to tell you, this isn't what I expected when Alfred said I needed something to get interested in." She eyed him, curiously. "I'm having a hard time believing you're ok with this."

Bruce sat sullenly on the couch, confirming her suspicions with his body language. "I don't like it, but Alfred seems to think you'd do it anyway..."

She looked down at her hands, then back up sheepishly. "He's right. I already have..."

"You what? Why?" Bruce sat upright, clearly taken aback.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to...", the challenge glinted in her eyes, daring him to continue.

He started to speak, then looked at her more carefully and decided to back off. "I'd like to hear it... even if I'm not going to like it."

She watched him for a minute, waiting to see if he'd change his mind, but he didn't. She decided to proceed as tactfully as she could. "Batman asked me to look over some photos; he wanted to know if I recognized any of the buildings as places where J... Joker… used to go." Bruce twitched, but she continued. "I gave him two places that looked kind of familiar. I don't know how that panned out, I haven't seen him since, but it made me think." She thought Bruce cursed under his breath, but wasn't positive. "I know there are copycat criminals out there, but they always make mistakes; they're too predictable, and Batman would catch them eventually. The only real threat would be if..." she took a deep breath, "… if it _were_ Joker." She held up her hands to cut off Bruce's protest. "I'm not saying it is; I'm just saying that would be the only real threat. So I thought if I looked at these crimes like I used to study Joker, pretend it _was_ him, maybe I could see how big this threat really is. You know, find out just how much this person really is like him..."

Bruce slouched back on the couch and rubbed his eyes, and she sat down next to him. Finally, he rested his head in his hands and spoke. "So, what do you think so far?"

"I think it's exactly what Joker would do if he was setting himself back up in the city."

Bruce blew out a breath and sat up straight. "Really?"

"Yeah." She grabbed her notebook and started flipping through pages. "You want to know why I think that?"

"... yeah"

"Well, first the mob bank robberies with the clown-masked men, who never live much past the heist."

"… exactly what he did the first time..."

"Right. Then there's been some murders, pretty much all criminals... all criminals who've tried to fill in the gaps he left behind."

"So you think he's taking them back out of the picture?"

"Yes." She started to get excited. "Think about Bruce, it's brilliant..." She glanced at him, and forced the edge out of her voice. "What if he was never dead in the first place? By disappearing for a while, now he knows exactly who the 'competition' is; he knows who wants the power he had and who was good enough to try and take it."

"What about that Jokers gang; why'd he kill them? They weren't a major force in Gotham, not from what I've read anyway."

"That was just for using his name. I mean, he killed that Brian guy for pretending to be Batman; he really doesn't like that."

Bruce frowned and faced her. "I don't like the way this is sounding..."

"I know... the more I look into it, the more it really seems like things Joker would do, if he was still keeping a 'low' profile, but getting ready to come back."

"You don't think it's really him though, do you?"

"I don't know... and I can't think about it because it's too hard. But regardless, whoever this is, they are definitely preparing for something big."

"Why?"

"Because that's what Joker would do. He wouldn't bother with all of this if he wasn't planning on making a big comeback in Gotham. You get it right? He played a big joke on Gotham..."

"And if it's a copycat?"

"Then that will be the joke, trick people into thinking its Joker - same fear, less work."

"How long?"

"Depends on how many more players he has to move around the chessboard first. But once that's done... "

Bruce reached out and took her hand. "I'm glad you're not at the Penthouse."

"Why? I thought it was safe there... "

"It should be, but if someone wanted a big target, a target Joker had once as well..."

"Then maybe you should hope it _is_ Joker." Bruce's face hardened, but he didn't say anything. "Joker wouldn't bother. If he was going to blow it up, he already would have. Someone else, who wanted to be like Joker... well, then all bets are off."

"I'm worried about you, too."

"I don't think whoever this is will be looking for me anytime soon. I didn't come into the picture until later, so if it's a copycat, there's no rush."

Bruce furrowed his brow, and spoke quietly. "And if it _was_ Joker?"

She swallowed hard and looked away, until Bruce squeezed her hand. "I don't know... he might want his toy back, he might not, but he has to go through Batman to get to me."

"... and me."

Her eyes fell wide open and she struggled to collect herself. "Oh my god, Bruce... I didn't even think about that! Joker sent Batman after me, it only ever occurred to me that's where he'd go if he wanted to find me."

Bruce pulled her to his side and pulled her chin up to face him. "He won't get to you either way."

She shook her head and gently pulled his hands into her own. "I'm not worried about me, well not yet anyway... he _likes_ fighting with Batman, but he'd just think you were in the way. God Bruce, this whole time I've only ever been worried about me... I never thought I'd be putting you in danger.

He pulled her into his chest. "Don't worry about me... I'm harder to kill than I look."

She nudged him with her elbow... "That's not funny!", then glanced up at him suspiciously. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you? Why _are_ you so interested this?"

He smirked at her. "Alfred was worried you might try sledding down the stairs after all..."

Her jaw dropped open briefly, then snapped shut. "He told you about that? I was just kidding... mostly..."

"I worry about you, ok? As much as I'd rather try and figure out just how much I should worry on my own, if us figuring this out together keeps you from breaking your arms on the stairs, then that's what we'll do."

She grinned. "I don't think I'd break my arms... I'm pretty careful..."

"Trust me, its harder than it looks."

She smiled at him, and felt lighter seeing his bright smile in return.

**(Later that night)**

"Any luck, sir?"

"With what?"

"Getting Miss Harleen involved in studying criminals."

"Ah… yes" Bruce clicked a few more things into the computer, then spun towards Alfred. "She came the same conclusion everyone has: this guy is doing a damn good Joker impersonation so far, but thinks it's only a matter of time before he does something big. That's never good for Gotham."

"Big, like what?"

"She didn't say, but she did say he wouldn't go to all this trouble just to keep a low profile, which is what we're all afraid of."

"Did she suggest anything you hadn't already thought of?"

Bruce grimaced. "Yeah, the joke… whoever this is thinks it's a great joke on Gotham to use Joker's name to spread fear and chaos... and I quote 'same fear, less work.'"

"Was that all?"

Bruce spun back to the computer and started typing again. "No. She thinks it really _is_ the Joker, in which case, the joke is letting us hope he was really dead."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think now... but I hope to hell she's wrong."

"So do I, sir, so do I."


	3. Ivory Tower

**A/N:** Based on some feedback, I thought a little additional background might be helpful. I believe, in Nolan-verse, Joker would not put up with the Harley we know and love from BTAS, so I've created a different Harley. She is still an inexperienced psychologist, but that is where the similarity largely ends; her demeanor is less volatile, and her perspectives are more malleable; geared towards whatever her circumstances demand. Ultimately, she's an observer and can mold herself into whatever she needs to be... which has kept her alive, but has taken its toll.

Drop me a line - let me know what you think, as long as its constructive :-)

**

* * *

(Six Months Ago)**

She walked to the see-saw and sat down, taking in the narrow view of the Gotham skyline, barely visible through the nearby buildings and the flying debris. The distant skyscrapers flickered in and out of sight through the dust cloud like ghosts of ancient pillars. She glanced down at the crumpled paper in her hands, staring at the words, but not letting them invade her mind; rather, she'd followed the instructions without thought and now sat back to wait for the conclusion of _his_ last show.

The faded and chipped saddle of the rocking horse had rusted in place, and it'd taken a lot of kicks and more than a few curses before it had budged. Finally, she'd kicked the saddle away from her, revealing a hollow opening inside the belly of the horse, and a small, gift-wrapped box. Taking a look at the last of the instructions, she folded up the paper and crammed it into her back pocket, then unwrapped the small box, smiling hollowly at the red "push me" button inside. She pushed it; she waited; she heard the explosion a few seconds before she felt it, and although she could just make out a dust cloud in the distance, she knew the building she'd lived in, everything she'd had, was gone... everything _they'd_ had was gone. She tossed the Push Me button to the ground and walked to the see-saw.

She didn't know how many hours passed as she watched the dust cloud settle; just that it had gotten darker and much colder. Nobody had bothered her, surprisingly, but none of the shadows lurking around the rusty playground seemed interested. Somebody could have shot her and put her out of her misery, but no such luck. His voice startled her, and although her mind shuddered in response, her body remained still.

"You're lucky no one was hurt."

She handed over the instructions, the only explanation she was capable of.

"He left this for you? Why?"

"It's a long story, but the message, this time, is only for me: he left me no choice, as always." She turned around after minutes of silence, assuming Batman had left her too, but there he was, immovable, just like Joker had always said.

"Come with me."

She followed his gruff command the same way she'd followed Joker's instructions, but this time, not without thought. "Why are you here?"

"The message wasn't just for you."

She raised an eyebrow at his cryptic reply, and wondered what Batman would do without Joker now. She barely covered an overwrought giggle; he eyed her with compassion, just for a second, before turning away again, and she followed.

"Is there someplace safe you can go?"

"Not anymore."

"No friends you can stay with? Family?"

She stifled the flash of anger. "Which is it… someplace safe, or friends and family?"

He didn't answer, but as soon as they reached the shadows of the nearest building, he stopped and faced her. "I should take you to Gotham PD". She startled at this, but clamped down on her fear. "I know it's not safe there for you."

"No, it's not."

"Do you trust me?"

"He did. That's good enough for me."

Surprise flickered across his face, just for a second. He motioned for her to hold out her arm, which she did, and pulled a syringe from his belt; he glanced at her, and pushed it in. She gave in to the feeling of falling, and closed her eyes.

She woke up slowly, squashing down a moment of panic in the darkness; windows on the far wall let in just enough ambient light, allowing her to make out the twinkling lights of distant buildings. Sitting up and rubbing her head, she idly wondered how high up the room must be to have windows that didn't directly face another building. Morosely amused, she made a mental note to thank Batman for his lack of information. Her current surroundings piqued her curiosity in a way nothing else had done since she saw _him_ last; then winced in pain. She made another mental note to avoid thinking of _him_. She slipped out of bed silently, rolling her eyes at herself; no need to be quiet now, but she'd always avoided drawing attention without reason. She explored the penthouse; it was far too large to be an apartment or hotel room, and the height sort of gave it away. She wondered whose penthouse it could be, and imagined being drug out by the police, screaming that _it was ok, Batman had brought her there_. She giggled, amused by her stint of paranoia, and went to the front door then peered out the viewer. Nice hallway, but just a hallway… in fact, there didn't seem to be any other doors, just an elevator. She'd almost died in a penthouse with an elevator; not an auspicious beginning... or ending.

She went back to the windows; mesmerized by the lights in the distance... it was so unreal, which was perfect, since she felt so out of place. Maybe it wasn't real anyway; maybe it was all some strange dream she was having. The alternating pain and numbness told her otherwise, but it was an interesting possibility. If it was a dream, she could change anything she wanted: she could jump out of the window and enjoy the fall, knowing she'd either die or wake up. She leaned her whole body against the glass, wondering if she could pass through it like a ghost. It was cold, and resistant, but all it would take was just a little push and it would break so easily.

"Enjoying the view?"

She jumped, cursing his silent entry, then collected herself. "I was wondering what it would feel like to fall." She turned, "You know what that's like though, don't you?"

He started to speak, then just nodded.

"Show me sometime…"

"It's not a trip most people want to take."

She shrugged, and turned back to the window.

"How are you feeling?"

She contemplated the question for a moment before answering; so many choices, but she settled on the most obvious. "You have the good stuff... no hangover."

"Good."

She shook her head, softly; here was a man of few words; so opposite _him_, who was constantly mumbling and ranting. She looked at him, curiously.

"He sent you for me?"

"He did."

"Why would you help him?"

"I'm not, I'm helping you."

"You could have ignored it, left me there, just to spite him."

"I thought about it."

She smiled at the brutal honestly; it was familiar, and that was a relief. "Well… thank you for that." She gestured around the penthouse. "So, where am I? What's the plan for me?"

"Wayne Towers... you're safe here."

She gawked for a minute. "This is Bruce Wayne's penthouse?" She swallowed. "And he just what... won't notice I'm here?"

"No one will find you here. Trust me."

She nodded, and then shook her head in disbelief that she was staying in Bruce Wayne's penthouse... Bruce Wayne's _bed_! Her eyes widened and she tried not to laugh out loud, wondering how many women would jump to trade places with her; never-mind that Bruce Wayne wouldn't _be_ in the bed.

He must have noticed her unintentional glance to the bedroom, because she thought she heard something that sounded like a laugh, but his face remained serious. "Don't open the door for anyone." He flipped a cell phone to her. "If you need anything, use this phone and leave a message."

She simply nodded again, and examined the phone, thinking how nice it would be to have a cell phone again. Hers was in small bits somewhere out in Gotham; so were her clothes for that matter. He turned to go, but she stopped him. "How will I get basics, like food, or clean clothes?"

Without turning back to her, he said "Leave a message. It'll get taken care of," and with that, she witnessed the most bizarre thing she'd seen yet: Batman walked out the front door and closed it behind him.

She flipped open the phone and realized he hadn't given her a number to call; he'd only said "leave a message" and she hadn't the presence of mind to ask _leave a message for whom?_ She cursed... what was happening to her? With _him_ she was always focused; with Batman it was like she couldn't think straight. She dialed her own number, but got nothing; she dialed a few other random numbers, but still, nothing. Great, the phone didn't even work. She flipped through the menu and scanned the contacts; she found one number listed and dialed it, then cheered when it rang through to a voice mail. She hadn't quite planned on that, so after a few seconds pause, she listed off the things she needed: clothes, some personal food favorites; she mumbled about not having a laptop, and grumbled that the entire giant luxury suite didn't have so much as a single piece of paper to write on. Before she hung up, she threw in "... and my art supplies out of storage would be nice". She grinned; let's see how good the voice mail robot was at getting _that_ for her.

Dawn was breaking on the horizon, and as tempting as it was to watch the sun rise, she was just too tired. She hadn't gotten any decent sleep in over a week, not since _he'd_ first disappeared. On any particular day, that was normal, but not for so many days on end; still, she never expected Joey and Mick to show up and tell her he wasn't coming back this time. At first she got angry; she didn't understand, she thought they'd said he'd left town, or gone into hiding, but slowly realized that's not what they'd meant. They must have expected her to react badly, because they were edgy and didn't know what to do when she just went, sat on the couch, and stared at the wall. She sat there for a long time, repeating to herself that he was gone; she couldn't say dead, never dead, just gone. They spoke to her again, eventually, and told her she had to leave; it wasn't safe anymore. Before they left, she asked them what happened to him; they said it was his last job, but wouldn't say more. They waited for her to go with them, but she'd refused; _he'd_ already made arrangements, she just hadn't realized for what until that moment. As the dawn broke, she closed her eyes and fell into darkness again.


	4. The Key

**(Gotham - Present)**

He jumped from the roof, swooping down into a tuck and roll, and then popped up next to the car. He clicked the remote, got inside and revved the engine, peeling down the alleyway. His jaw hurt from clenching it so hard, and he needed to thank Lucius once again for making a sturdy vehicle; he'd have broken the steering wheel of any other car.

He'd been too late, again. The boarded-up building had been full of left-over, busted-up crates, some empty ammo shells, and several dark stains of recently dried blood next to many more, much older, stains. His hunch had been right; the joker-mimic had used one of Joker's old hideouts, but they had at least a three day head start. He glanced to the seat next to him and tossed over two small jars that he'd been clenching in one fist, then punched the steering wheel. He ignored the tightness in his chest, and the beginnings of another pounding headache, and glared at the jars. White and black residue was smeared all over the inside of them, and glancing at his black glove, he shuddered when he noticed a smudge of white greasepaint. Whoever this was had gone as far as using Joker's makeup, and it made him sick.

It was almost dawn when he trudged upstairs, having spent the rest of the night confirming what he already knew: the empty shell casings were similar to those found in the recent joker-crimes, and the makeup was the same cheap greasepaint Joker used. He found no fingerprints on the casings or the makeup-jars, and he rubbed his eyes, frustrated but not surprised. Obviously they were dealing with somebody very familiar with the Joker's ways, and who was proving to be just as adept at hiding.

Bruce angrily rolled over on his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head, but sleep evaded him. His brain refused to relinquish memories from the past few months, as if they held the key to the current crime spree. He _knew_ they didn't; he'd been over every single conversation he'd had with Harley, both as Batman and as Bruce, and came up empty in both cases. As Batman, he could only interrogate her about her time with Joker, and that revealed very little information. Joker hadn't shared his plans with her and instead seemed to seek her out as some kind of... vacation... some fun to be had in between his sick and twisted games. With Bruce, she'd been much more willing to talk about her time with Joker, but he learned more about Harley than gaining any insight into Joker, and that had introduced... complications.

At first, aside from getting information, his only concern had been her safety; although she'd never played an active role in Joker's reigns of terror, she would be a target for revenge, even inside the GPD. Hiding Harley in the penthouse kept her off the radar completely, and made it easier for him to keep an eye on her; he hadn't particular trusted her further than he could see her. Over time, though, he'd watched the isolation wear her down until she spent all her time hiding in the shadows or buried in her art projects. After one particularly disturbing image stood out, that of a colorful parrot laying dead in a gilded cage contrasted with a murder of crows over a harvest moon, he'd finally asked her about it and she described her work as 'art therapy'. As she deconstructed her life onto canvas, he could see she need human contact, and he only had one solution; as it turned out, Bruce Wayne served a very useful purpose for once.

He hadn't lied to her when he, as Batman, told her Bruce needed help recovering from all the destruction Joker had caused. It'd been two years since Rachel's death, and he couldn't honestly say it didn't weigh heavily on his mind every single day. Every person he saved could have been her; every person he lost was her all over again; two years of second guessing and blaming himself for not being there for Rachel when she needed him most had taken its toll. Of course, he couldn't explain any of that to Harley, but he could explain what Rachel meant to him, and how angry he still was at being cheated out of the life he'd wanted with her. He was positive if Harley could relate to one thing, it was being cheated out of the life she'd imagined for herself; he hadn't been wrong. After watching her for months, he wasn't surprised when she pushed him, as Bruce, into his own 'art therapy', but he had been surprised at how quickly she cut through everything superficial about Bruce Wayne. Sometimes he felt dangerously exposed, yet she hadn't gone deep enough to figure him out completely, and thankfully she never seemed to realize just how much she'd really figured out.

He suspected the same must be true of Joker; although he had a hard time believing a lot of what he'd learned from her about that monster. The hardest part for him to swallow was that Harley was still alive; she believed that buried deep inside that lunatic lay a man who was capable of not killing, of not destroying everything he touched, of rational thought. Joker _had_ been extremely intelligent; a mastermind at exploiting weakness and chipping away at hope, but people were simply objects to him to be used as he saw fit, then tossed aside. Technically Joker had tossed Harley aside when he died, but then he'd left his signature cards in the rubble of the building she'd lived in, a clue, with a particular image of the Gotham skyline that took hours to track to the playground in the narrows, and another image that hadn't made any sense until he'd found Harley. The red and black Harlequin, in place of the jester on the card, had been the final piece of that puzzle, and although he couldn't fathom why, he was relieved he'd found someone alive, for once.

He dropped the pillow under his head and punched it into shape; then fell face first into it. Harley had to be the key to the clown-crimes... why else would she still be alive... but he couldn't find any connection no matter how hard he looked. If this Joker-mimic _was_ planning on using her somehow, he had to find her first, and now that Harley was staying on the grounds of Wayne Manor, she was even harder to find than in the Penthouse. True, Bruce had taken her into the city a few times, but his reputation alone made it unlikely anyone would suspect a more permanent connection; not to mention, the newly constructed Wayne Manor was a veritable fortress. He and Lucius had done most of the security features themselves after the contractors had left the grounds; he'd tested the security himself and wound up on his own surveillance. He groaned into the pillow in frustration. Maybe he was trying too hard to make sense out of the chaos; maybe Harley wasn't supposed to be part of this at all; maybe Joker just thought it would be funny leave behind the one person who wouldn't condemn him completely. That still left him no further ahead at solving this mystery than he was before... some joke.

**(Elsewhere in Gotham - Present)**

The hunched figure stepped back into the shadows, watching the remnants of papers fluttering in the wake of screaming tires and a roaring engine. Some people just didn't appreciate subtlety; he grinned to himself and stepped into a doorway all but lost in the alleyway shadows. It was nice to see The Bat, especially an angry bat, and he _had_ been angry; the rending of wood as it crashed against a wall upstairs was a dead giveaway. The Bat always made things so much more fun, it was a wonder more people didn't want to play! He shook his head and walked to his favorite empty window, turned his back on it, and sat against the wall underneath, staring out into the moonlit room. He stayed that way for hours.

Peeling, empty walls stared back at him, refusing to be colorful or interesting no matter which way he turned his head. Invisible signs hung from the ceiling that only he could see, holding secret messages only he understood. Silent music filtered through his ears, reminding him why the empty walls and invisible signs were so aggravating. They were _boring_! No jokes, no desecrated idealism, nothing new, just the same blank canvases of plaster and air, and he was sick of them. He had played Gotham like a fiddle for years, composed his own explosive symphony and listened to the horrified screams of applause, but now, after the applause died away, there was just anxious silence in the audience, waiting for the next movement, the finale… the joke.

Smirking, he considered his muse's brief stint at Bruce Wayne's side; what challenge could that cardboard cutout of a human be, other than the challenge of staying awake? He knew she'd happily decorate these walls and chase away all the tedium; he couldn't wait to see what she'd make, what games she'd invent, to memorialize coming back from the dead; he could think of a few if she needed any suggestions. A whole new masterful, musical arrangement warranted a whole new set of artistic commentaries, which worked out well since he'd blown up everything else she'd ever made; although technically _she'd_ blown it up. He grinned. Really, he couldn't wait to spring the surprise on her; there was no way she wasn't bored to tears by now and that just wouldn't do at all.


	5. Eye See You

**A/N: There should be a little of something for everyone in this chapter! Its been a little longer between posts than I anticipated, so to make up for it, I made a longer post. Big thank you's to my reviewers - you make my day!**

**(Interior - Arkham Asylum)**

"Crane!"

Jonathan Crane stepped back from his lab table and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a calming breath. He absolutely detested being interrupted, something he'd explained numerous times, and yet the man had absolutely no sense of personal danger. Every little interruption pushed open the mental cell door holding his alter ego in check, and each time, closing the door took a little longer than the last.

_You could use him as a test subject you know._

Not until he fulfills his obligations.

_Spineless coward, letting a man like THAT dictate your life. Kill him and leave this place, we don't need him. _

We have full run of the laboratory, the clown provides the chemicals we need, and Arkham is keeping his end of the bargain. We have access to all the test subjects we could desire, and for now, and Arkham is taking the spotlight for himself, which keeps us out of it.

_He is a greedy bastard and is using us to keep himself in the spotlight._

If the public wants to believe Dr. Arkham is curing us, so much the better.

_They are fools if they believe that._

On that point, we agree.

Crane turned his head casually towards the public face of Arkham Asylum. "Yes, Dr. Arkham?"

Jeremiah Arkham halted inches from Crane, frowned heavily, and crossed his arms. "There are two new guards today, and I have no doubt the clown is to blame. You need to get a handle on him before we loose all our staff."

Crane smirked, "That _would_ be a tragedy..." then became serious, "...however, if you have an issue with Joker, I suggest you take it up with him yourself. I'm sure he'd be... happy... to accommodate your wishes."

Arkham shuddered, then pointed at Crane. "You're the reason he's here, you take care of it. Don't forget that GPD is following your 'recovery' very closely, and all it would take is one word from..."

Crane twitched and spoke darkly, making Arkham involuntarily step backwards. "Watch your threats, Doctor, unless you want to be scrutinized by GPD yourself. You don't want them asking too many questions about your therapy 'techniques' do you?"

Rapidly deflated, Arkham hunched forward, sulking. "The staff notice these things, Dr. Crane. I cannot keep explaining the sudden replacement of guards and expect no one to raise any alarms... something neither of us wants. I don't know what Joker does here, nor do I wish to know, so long as he leaves the rest of the asylum alone. You have everything you need to continue your... research... and that arrangement works well for both of us. All I ask is that you keep an eye on that psychopath so he doesn't ruin it for all of us."

Crane flashed a condescending smile. "I would think, for a man of your intelligence, explaining high staff turnover at an institution for the criminally insane would be no challenge. The pay is low, the risk is high, and since most of the inmates are unlikely to ever... recover... job satisfaction must be extremely poor. I would imagine it's a very disheartening environment and it's no wonder very few wish to stay on. Now, if you'll excuse me, I _was_ working on something... unless you'd like to stay and help me test it?"

_Yes, do stay._

Arkham back away quickly, turned, then headed for the stairwell door. "Fine, but I can only keep the police at bay so long, Crane." He disappeared through the doorway.

Crane turned back to his lab table and muttered under his breath, "... just a little longer, Dr. Arkham, just a little longer."

**(Arkham - darkened hallway)**

Whistling over the slowly fading screams, Scarecrow walked briskly down the hallway. He considered removing his mask and letting Jonathan back out, but he was having too good an evening to spoil it just yet. He slid quietly into a dark stairwell, descended several flights to the bottom, and then opened a windowless, steel door that appeared locked to anyone who didn't know better. The door opened quietly, despite its aged and rusty appearance, and scarecrow slipped inside the large room and surveyed the rows of barrels and boxes lining the floor. He watched carefully for signs of movement and quickly spied a man-shaped shadow dancing on the far wall; as his footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, the shadow slowly rotated.

_"Did you bring the chemicals I asked for?"_

High pitched giggles erupted from the shadow's corner, and the figure stepped into view, easily recognizable by the glint of white face-paint and the purple suit. "Ah, well, I guess I don't have to ask who _you_ are tonight. The mask, it's... ah... not very subtle." He giggled again and waved a gloved hand in Crane's general direction, then shook his head and stepped forward, all traces of amusement gone. "Did _you_ bring the files I asked for?"

Scarecrow frowned; if the clown wanted to be all business, he might as well let Jonathan take the lead. Jonathan slid the mask off and slipped it into his coat pocket, then ran a hand through his hair and put his glasses back on. "Of course." He pulled the neatly folded papers from the interior pocket of his jacket and set them on top of the nearest barrel, preferring to keep his distance from the clown.

_You know, one of these days, I'd like to see what makes the clown cower in fear._

Do you really expect results? Have you bothered to look at him?

_Everyone is afraid of something, Jonathan._

"I hate to interrupt the silent chat you're having with yourself there, Crane, but I'm a busy man... places to be, things to burn." He squinted at Crane, thoughtfully, then stepped closer and casually pointed his knife. "You shouldn't hold yourself back like that; you should let the _real_ you shine through." He closed the gap quickly, grabbing Crane's collar, and grinned. "I'd be happy to help!"

Crane stifled a shudder and clenched his teeth shut to keep Scarecrow from taking the clown up on his challenge. In a hands-down fight, regardless of what Scarecrow thought, Crane knew he was no match for the clown. After a few moments of silence from Scarecrow, he spoke. "If you brought me what I need," he glanced around the room, "and I can see that you've been busy doing just that, I'm sure you'll get your wish very soon." The clown stepped back, and Crane relaxed.

The clown sauntered towards the doorway, grabbing the folded papers along the way and cramming them into his coat pocket, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, uh, nice selection of patients you got here for your, uh, 'work-release' program." He patted his coat pocket. "I have high hopes for your newest batch." He turned and slammed happily through the doorway, then disappeared up the stairs.

Crane examined the newest barrels and crates, smiling with pleasure at how well thing were coming together. I think with this latest delivery, we're almost done with the clown.

_Good! I'm getting bored with the lowbrow criminals in this place. There's no challenge here!_

I agree, and now that we've perfected the toxin again, its time to test it out on the rest of Gotham.

Crane and Scarecrow smiled.

**(Wayne Manor - Carriage House)**

She only thought of _him_ at night, which is to say, she only thought of him for all the hours she was awake and alone. Kaleidoscopes of joker cards, on canvas, painted the walls of the carriage house in bright, explosive hues, as ever demanding of her attention as he was. Music from within her whispered through the otherwise empty air, invisibly swirling around the canvassed cards and making them sway to her song. If she looked hard enough, she could see the tiny jester bells bobbing to the rhythm, adding faint chimes in cadence with her notes, perfectly in tune to her. The invisible dance, she called it; that was why she'd worked so hard brushing paint to paper to plastic: to dance eternally in darkness.

If _he_ could, he would laugh at her seriousness, deface his own images in effigy to the IDEA of him, and suck the song from her solely into him. She knew the images she'd built were only reflections, and sometimes, when the loneliness overtook her, she thought maybe she'd created them so that someday they would burn. Releasing the ideas on the world was never her role though, and so the images piled up along her walls, waiting for their moment to be shared, to burn. Only _he_ could free what she could catch, and for now, capturing ideas of him was all she could do; but she wanted so badly to be freed. On these nights, she missed him most of all.

Towards dawn, while staring at the ceiling above her bed, she floated in a sea of guilt... Bruce... who had done everything he could for her and who was most hurt by the images she'd captured. She could reflect a seemingly endless myriad of controversy and chaos, but she had yet to create a symbol of his value; he was too overwhelmingly stable, and good, and she couldn't wrap her head around what he meant to her. She wanted so much to create something just for him, to speak only to him, but time after time she tried and failed to capture the idea of Bruce. There was always something just out of reach, something intangible yet so important, and to her frustration, the canvas could not pull it from within her. The only remote success she'd experienced was her dual-sided thank you to Batman for literally pulling her from the rubble that had been her life. It, currently, was the only idea that was as clear to her as the many she'd had of _him_, but still, none for Bruce. She hoped that, for now, Bruce would be happy to see she'd created something from her life as it was now, rather than her past.

**(Carriage House – The next night)**

"Bruce!"

She jumped forward and hugged him, knocking him slightly off balance; he wrapped one arm around her and used the other to steady himself against the sudden assault. Being greeted so enthusiastically was still disconcerting to him, he wasn't used to being missed, but he had to admit her smile warmed him inside. He leaned down and kissed her; the warmth spreading even further when she gladly returned it. He muttered "I missed you," before realizing he really meant it.

She pulled her head back and smiled. "I missed you too." She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them.

He surveyed the apartment and noted the small changes. She'd obviously been busy; all the artwork from the Penthouse lined every available wall space, even the 'creepy' eyes she hated so much. He smirked; he was proud of those eyes, even if they did scare her. They were his first successful foray into 'art therapy' after a few failed attempts at making simple things, and the first time he'd learned a little about why she believed in it so much. She'd originally pushed him into painting, but that hadn't worked out, so instead he'd tried simple white chalk on black construction paper and the idea came to him immediately. Her ability to see through many of his layers made him feel vulnerable, and that played a large part in creating the giant white outlines of eyes. He hadn't intended the eyes to follow you wherever you went, he'd had no idea how to do that even if he'd wanted to, and yet they did. That pleased him too because, as Batman, he had to be constantly vigilant; he had to see everything. He could relate to those eyes on a visceral level, and he spoke through that piece more than he'd ever speak about such things in real life. She must have sensed something, because she'd never asked him to explain his inspiration despite the many times he'd asked her about her pieces, and she was more than willing to keep them on display even though it was obvious they bothered her.

She watched him survey the artwork and frowned when he tensed; he always had the same reaction to the pieces she'd made with Joker in mind, even though he swore he understood. She relaxed when he finally did, and was pleased to see he'd noticed her latest piece; the thing that had kept her busy the last three days he'd been gone. He took several steps closer to study it, inspecting both sides for a long time, tracing his finger around parts of the image, and occasionally standing back to take it all in as a whole. She was almost ready to sit down and wait for him when he turned to her, startling her just a little.

He pointed to the most visible side. "This is the symbol we see in the clouds, right?" She nodded. "Only here it looks more like a wall, and you used a lot of business logos to create the Gotham skyline in the background, like a castle." She nodded again, more pleased. "So, the symbol, it's like a crest on a medieval knight's armor, also a protector, like a wall, so… Batman the protector of Gotham?" That's a lot of work for a simple statement, isn't it?"

She smiled and nodded at him, glad that he could see it with a critical eye. "You've almost got it; you're just missing one more piece. It might be easier if you took a few steps back," which he did. He cocked his head to the side, and she had a brief image tear through her mind of a time when _he'd_ looked at some of her artwork the same way; she wondered if it made things more understandable. She shook off the hurt from that parallel image, and re-focused on Bruce.

He put his hands in his pockets, then turned back to her more slowly, grinning. "The whole piece is dark, even the city skyline. The crest is the darkest part, like dark armor on a knight… a Dark Knight, right? A Dark Knight, from a literally dark night."

She grinned back at him, immensely pleased; she'd never watched someone work through it like that before. _He'd_ always gotten it immediately and moved past it, impatient to leave his own mark and response. It was very satisfying to see someone work through all the pieces, spending the same time she had on the details. He stepped around to study the flip side of the piece, and she watched him frown almost immediately; she could guess why, but waited to hear his own assessment.

Finally, he half turned towards her, but didn't take his eye off the side that clearly disturbed him. "This side doesn't seem so positive…"

She nodded, noting he focused only on the darker side of the message.

"The waves are crashing onto the rocks, slowly tearing them apart, and the peaceful town behind the rocks has no idea. It looks pretty hopeless; eventually the rocks are going to wear away."

She cocked her head at him and eyed him curiously. "You could choose to see it that way, if you wanted to."

"But that's not what you intended?"

"No. You're missing the lightness and darkness again, I think."

Surprised, he turned back to the piece, muttering out loud. "The waves are dark, colorful actually, but all dark; the rocks are almost white, well shades of light gray actually, and the area behind the rocks is red?"

"Rose." she corrected.

Realization dawned in his eyes. "The area that could be crushed by the ocean is rose colored, as in rose colored glasses. The shades of gray, or white, are keeping the dark forces at bay. Ok, that wasn't so hard."

"One more piece. You alluded to it with your first interpretation."

"... the rocks are slowly eroding, and inevitably, that rose colored town will be destroyed when those rocks are gone. But, for now, they are the only thing keeping the destruction at bay." He looked up at her, face full of meaning. "… a sacrifice they make that no one sees."

She nodded and watched his face go through a range of expressions, finally settling on acceptance. He took several steps back and then returned to the first side he'd studied, clearly showing a preference for the less emotional side.

"You put a lot of thought into your pieces."

"I try." she responded, softly.

"These seem very...personal."

This time she said nothing.

He continued on, slowly. "This was how you spoke to Joker… and it didn't upset him." He didn't speak for a few more minutes, and when she stayed silent, he turned back to her expectantly.

She glanced away from the intense stair, not sure what he wanted from her. "He seemed to understand it, and I think on some level it pleased him, or at least amused him. And, it's not confrontational... it wasn't emotional, for him."

"But it's emotional for you, isn't it?"

"It is now, yes. At first, it was just my attempt to distract him, to get him thinking about himself and not me. Honestly, in hindsight, I'm surprised it worked."

"Well, it _does_ make an impact, what you do, but I'm having a hard time envisioning Joker being affected by your artwork." He frowned.

A light went off in her mind. "It bothers you that you might have just shared something with him."

He nodded. "It's a disturbing possibility, yes."

"He took a lot from you, I know, and I could say a lot of cliché things right now, none of which would make either of us feel better. I wish I could say that someday it will all make sense. Sometimes I think of his chaos as just a force of nature, like a flames burning out of control, or waves, destroying everything they touch."

He stared through her, his face unreadable. "I can't hold a fire responsible, but I can damn well hold him responsible."

She sighed, and walked to the painted ocean, lightly tracing the rolling waves as they crashed over the rocks. Joker _had_ been a force of his own, as much of a force as Batman, and she'd intentionally created their images on flip sides of the same piece. Arguing with Bruce over responsibility missed the point entirely, but then again, she'd made this piece for herself, how she saw both of them. She'd hoped that by putting _his_ image to canvas, specifically on canvas next to Batman, she could exorcise the last hold Joker had on her mind. It hadn't worked, and instead she found herself thinking of him more and more. Bruce's timing couldn't have been better; she desperately needed someone to help her escape her own state of mind. Vanity demanded she leave the piece out for viewing, but now that it'd sucked Bruce in as well, she wished she'd locked it in a closet.

Bruce _was_ sucked into the piece, but not like she thought. As much as he hated that she'd created another piece with Joker present, he was still stunned by the thought she'd put into the parts dedicated to Batman. He been thanked by those he'd saved, and hunted by the same, never fully accepted; he'd chosen a dark symbol of hope and had expected no differently, but inside, he'd always seen himself as Gotham's defender. He knew which side of good and evil he fell on, and he knew he'd stand between Gotham and all that tried to destroy her for as long as he was able. If his reaction to his own artwork of eyes was visceral, his reaction now was emotional, so deeply personal he suddenly wished he hadn't seen it. He wanted to tell Harley how much her work meant to him: what it felt like to be seen by even just one other person the way he saw himself, and the way he wished he could be seen by everyone. Instead, it was another moment where she saw him so clearly and didn't even realize it, and it took several motionless minutes before he could face her calmly, without giving everything away.

When he did, he simply took her hand and led her to the bedroom. There was another way he could tell her how much her work meant, how much she meant, without speaking.


	6. Gauntlet

**A/N: My impending cross-country move is interfering with regular posting, but thank you for sticking with me. Big thank you to my reviewers - you keep me motivated!**

"Tonight we have with us the controversial Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Thanks for being with us, Dr. Arkham."

"You're welcome, Mr. Engle, although I'd hardly call myself controversial."

"You can't deny, Dr. Arkham, that your attempts at rehabilitating Jonathan Crane, otherwise known as The Scarecrow, has sparked city-wide protests, forcing the police to man the gates to Arkham bridge. We've had reports that only credentialed employees of the Asylum, The Mayor and Commissioner Gordon are allowed to cross the bridge to Arkham Island."

"I don't deny there have been protests, only that my work is controversial. Doctor...Jonathan Crane was sentenced to our asylum after being convicted for his role in Fright Night. The purpose of our institution is to treat the clinically insane, and as director, it's my job to make sure that patients like Dr. Crane are getting proper treatment. It's our hope that he can be a fully-functioning member of society again."

"Yet you're getting ready to publish a book about his case, and have applied for federal grant money for your institution based solely on your 'success' with Dr. Crane. Isn't it true the asylum had to declare bankruptcy after former asylum director Jonathan Crane's arrest? And there are many who think you've taken over the asylum solely for self-promotion. Your book deal alone is rumored to be a multi-million dollar contract."

Arkham smiled benignly to the camera, then glanced back to Engle. "Was there a question in there, Mr. Engle, or have you run out of rumors to discuss?"

"They wouldn't be rumors if you confirm or deny any one of them tonight."

"The general public _is_ very interested in my work with Dr. Crane... who wouldn't be... a psychiatrist turned criminal, who went from running one of the country's leading asylums to being one of its most notorious patients. Yes, the book deal will generate a good deal of money, all of which will be funneled back into restoring and upgrading the asylum."

"So you deny that your book deal is just a money-making stunt for self-promotion."

"I was approached by the publisher, not the other way around, Mr. Engle."

"And yet, wasn't Jonathan Crane appointed as your replacement eight years ago because of your lack of success with patient rehabilitation?"

Arkham ceased smiling. "Pure fiction. I desired to start my own practice and Dr. Crane had excellent credentials. Of course, at that time, he'd shown absolutely no signs of his insanity."

"What about the shooting at the university, resulting in him being fired from his professorship?"

"At the time, we simply felt he was very young and enthusiastic about teaching psychology. In hindsight, it could be construed as an early warning sign, but we cannot change the past, just learn from it and move on."

"Speaking of moving on, why did you decide to leave your private practice and re-establish yourself as the asylum's director, and only after Dr. Crane was sentenced?"

"The asylum is the family business, if you will; I always intended to resume my position. Leading such an established institution as Arkham Asylum is more than a full time job, it is my life. I wanted time away to refine my therapy techniques, and the few years of private practice allowed me to do just that. The timing of my return was simply coincidental; I was ready, and the asylum was in need of a new director."

"Why didn't you have any success with The Joker?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Joker had been in and out of the Asylum numerous times after his initial arrest, and was arguably the Asylum's highest profile patient. And yet, you had no success with him, did you, Doctor?"

Arkham grimaced and sat back in his chair. "The Joker's psychosis was such that rehabilitation was extremely unlikely. He was clinically insane, but even I don't believe there is a therapy technique in existence today that could have truly reach him."

"So why did you repeatedly insist you could treat him, when he should have been sent to Blackgate prison?"

"As I said, he _was_ clinically insane, however I did _not_ say that we couldn't help him; I merely said he would never have been fully rehabilitated. I think he was capable of learning to control his aggression and narcissism, and could have become less of a danger to society."

"What made you think you could help him?"

"While I don't believe there is a therapy technique that could fully restore him, there is one technique that shows promise in patients who are extremely emotionally stunted."

"Is that the technique you are using on Dr. Crane?"

"Not yet, however I believe it could be the key to Dr. Crane's recovery."

"How long do you think it will be before you release Dr. Crane back into the general populace?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked me that Mike, it's the real reason I agreed to come on your show tonight. Just prior to Dr. Crane's arrest, one of our young doctors was finishing her internship, and she specialized in this particular therapy technique... art therapy. It is not commonly taught and is still relatively under-utilized in our profession, so when she left our facility, so did her work. At the time, she worked under Dr. Crane's supervision, and he was not a believer in the efficacy of her treatments. However in reviewing his case notes, I can see that she was making progress with several of her patients. Ironically for him, I believe it is the one thing that can truly help him, however, we have lost track of our young doctor in the intervening years. So, Mr. Engle, I'm here tonight to make a public offer to Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Dr. Quinzel, Arkham Asylum would love to have you back on our team; please contact me directly at the asylum, we have your badge and security clearance ready if you are."

Engle blinked a few times before turning to the camera. "There you have it folks, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham asking for assistance in the treatment of Jonathan Crane. Dr. Quinzel, we wish you the best of luck, wherever you are."

(Wayne Manor)

"Sir, were you planning on reading that paper, or squeezing it to death?"

Bruce looked at the crushed newspaper in his hands and angrily tossed it on the floor. "I have to talk to her, Alfred."

"Perhaps not right now, sir; you might scare Miss Harleen in your current state."

Bruce looked at Alfred, and then sagged into the arm chair facing the television. Listlessly, he grabbed the remote and clicked off the news, then rubbed his temples. "This is bad, Alfred, very bad. This is has to be some kind of setup."

"To what purpose, sir?"

"I don't know, but it can't just be a coincidence that the Joker crimes are escalating and now Arkham suddenly wants to hire her... to treat Crane of all people? You heard Arkham, Harley was just an intern there, and since then she's spent all her time with Joker, and now me, not working in some private practice refining HER techniques!" Bruce grumbled and started pacing. "I don't know who is crazier, Crane or Arkham... Crane knows he's a menace and doesn't care, but Arkham wants to turn him loose in the city... AGAIN! That's just what we need... a Joker and a Scarecrow, with Harley in the middle of it all."

"And yourself, sir."

Bruce stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. "...and me." Leaning his forehead against the wall, he tiredly punched the hard-paneled support. "Things were almost... good... Alfred. Spending time with her... it... it helps me. I can't explain it, but being with her is like taking a vacation from all this." He waved his hand demonstratively, and spun around, leaning his back against the wall. "I thought if I could just stop these Joker crimes, if Joker would just STAY DEAD, maybe I could take a break..."

"If anyone deserves a break, Master Bruce, it's you, and don't you give up just yet. Miss Harleen may not be as anxious as you think to be thrust into the spotlight; she's still here."

"For now."

"Only one way to find out, sir. I think maybe it's time for that little chat now."

Bruce strode out of the living room, and Alfred picked up the crumpled newspaper, straightening it as he followed. Stopping short, his eyes widened as he stared at the page; Harley's smiling, slightly younger, face stared back at him.

(Carriage House)

"Harley?" Bruce waived his hand in front of her, uselessly. He'd arrived a minute prior and entered to see her pacing back and forth, hands emphasizing the barely audible mumbles coming from her. Finally, he stepped in front of her, grabbing her shoulders, and barely kept her from running directly into him.

"Bruce!" She rubbed her eyes and blinked at him. "Jesus, I didn't even see you there."

"I just got here..." He appraised her carefully, and frowned. "Are you ok?"

She tensed, then sagged against him, gently but repeatedly knocking her forehead against his chest. "Why now? It doesn't make any sense! Why would Arkham want to hire me now? He said himself Crane hated my art therapy, and he wasn't lying." She grabbed Bruce's hand and led him to the couch. "Crane thought what I did was utterly baseless, quack psychology... even if Arkham was right and Crane needs that now, Crane would never allow it to work."

Bruce, grabbed both her hands and held them gently. "I don't like it, and I don't like you coming into the public eye like this. Not with everything that's going on... its too dangerous."

"Its too late now, isn't it? Arkham just shoved me under the spotlight whether we wanted it or not." Bitterly, she shook her head.

Seeing her expression, Bruce grimaced. "No, you don't have to do this. I don't want you to do this."

"Bruce, everyone will be looking for me now."

"There is always a choice. Your last known address was completely demolished and for all anyone knows, you along with it."

"What about the people who've seen us out together? Somebody is bound to recognize me sooner or later, and what about you, Bruce? If anyone remembers I was with you, you'll be in the spotlight too."

Bruce smirked. "I'm used to it, trust me, I can handle it." Growing serious again, he squeezed her hands. "Promise me you won't decide tonight. Think about this, please; you don't have to do this, I can keep the press, and anyone else, away from you until this blows over."

She smiled sadly. "You and I both know it's not going to 'blow over' for a long time, not with the publicity surrounding Dr. Crane's rehabilitation."

"Arkham might drop it, though, if you don't turn up in the next week or so."

She sat quietly for a few minutes, curling up next to him and tucking her head under his chin, pondering all that he'd said. Quietly, she spoke. "Bruce, what if Arkham really does need my help? Mike Engle was absolutely right when he said Arkham didn't have any success the first time he ran the Asylum. I only heard staff rumors, but those rumors were pretty bad: skimming off the top, patients neglected... from what I heard, Arkham never helped a single patient, and now he's suddenly having "success" with Crane?"

"If that's true, then he wants you to do the work and keep the glory for himself."

"But Dr. Crane's sanity hangs in the balance...I don't want the press; he can have it. Dr. Crane may not have respect for my work, but he was a brilliant psychologist. He could be again."

"At least let me try to find someone else?"

"Most art therapists work with children and families, not convicted felons." She sighed. "I might just be the only qualified person who also happens to have experience with the clinically insane."

(Later that Night)

Lying silently next to a restlessly sleeping Bruce, Harley stared at the shadows swaying across the ceiling as the breeze brushed through the bedroom-window curtains. She imagined ever-changing shapes from the shadows, but all of them were disturbing: first a hawk-nosed face, then a distorted man in a top hat, followed by a dark mountain top, and on they went. The shadows weren't simply sparking her imagination, they were haunting memories of her Asylum patients' artwork. Dr. Crane had insisted on keeping everything her patients had created, despite his professed opposition to the technique; he considered them part of the highly confidential case notes and locked them away in his office. She wondered if Arkham would insist on doing the same... although... she had leverage now. Arkham was seeking her help, offering her a job; the negotiations would be entirely on her terms or she could easily walk. She relished the possibility of being a respected member of her field, which had always been her dream, and sensed potential for control over her life in a way she hadn't been for years. Deep down, she already knew, the minute Arkham spoke the words, she'd say yes, despite Bruce's very legitimate concerns. Of course, his concerns weren't exactly the same as hers; he was afraid the copy-cat Joker might seek her out, but she stayed quietly convinced of who it really was. Being in the public spotlight would flush _him_ out one way or the other, and she could finally know, once and for all, whether he was still alive, even though it meant her safety. Slowly, a smile stole over her face as the shadows danced to a livelier rhythm; Arkham had implied her therapy might have been able to reach Joker... but she _knew_ it did, and it was time to stop hiding. She only hoped she could keep Bruce out of the path of the coming storm.


	7. Asylum

**Sorry its been so long - RL has been a kick in the teeth this fall. Just a warning, there are changing viewpoints all through this chapter. I've tried to divide them up clearly, so I hope its not too confusing.  
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* * *

**

The main problem with Gotham was the lack of color... drab sky, drab clothes, dour faces, too much glass and concrete. Gotham-Gray even permeated the trees, leaving the expected vibrant browns and greens looking sickly and muted. In fact, without faith in the basic, fundamental combination of pigment and light, Gotham might just convince you color was a figment of your imagination. Take night-time, for example… less light equaled less color. The pigments may remain, but without light to shine upon them, they added nothing to the city-scape. What the city needed was more pigments, more lights... splashes of red glowing underneath the light of bright fires would be the perfect solution to a city wallowing in its own miserable, colorless existence.

Staring around the file-room, he spotted 'Q', and smirked when the file-drawer revealed the folder with the name he was looking for. He ripped out the bundle of aging pictures... art, she called it... from the over-sized file cabinet, and spread them out on the floor, hoping to find actual file notes on Harley. Disappointingly, the file contained only the results of her art therapy sessions, and her notes about other patients. He glanced at them, considered lighting them on fire, but then noticed the vibrant colors, enticing enough to make him sit down and rifle through them. The drawings were pathetic tales from sad lives, and their universally kindergarten-like structure glaringly conflicted with their grisly content. Neither the tales, nor the structure, nor the content, intrigued him. No, it was the color, only, that attracted his attention and made him smile. The yellow fires, green and purple mayhem, and blood-red death displayed the only message worth sending. Based on her notes, even Harley didn't see it... but she would. After all, she was the one who, with only a crayon, started showing the world what color and a little light could do. And with Arkham's help, the world would soon see more... much more.

Tossing the rest on the floor, he picked up his newly designated favorite and mused over the little stick figures, one headless and another without legs. Another stick figure, carrying an axe and smiling, sat on the stump of tree. A bleeding-blue sun blazed in the top corner, and a little house spewed yellow flames off to the side. Flipping the paper over, he noticed neatly scribbled notes about the vivid use of color, all correctly used except for the blue sun. Apparently, the author of the notes determined that stick figures being the same size was important, as was their relatively even spacing from each other - missing body parts aside. Below the neatly scribbled notes were a few, more precisely penned, notes. Diagnosis - psychopath. He grabbed a few more of the pages he'd tossed on the floor and flipped through them, noticing a striking difference in the first author's notes about each piece, but the same diagnosis given each patient by the second author. Shaking his head, he marveled at Harley's ability to get anyone in the dingy asylum to reveal their secrets with no weapon other than a crayon. He picked a crayon up and examined it closely, wondering what secrets it might reveal about him. Then he laughed, and drew a sickening smile on the wall in burnt umber, before crushing the crayon under his foot. Grabbing the construction paper effigies, he headed out of the art room to find author number two.

* * *

Crane frowned. "So, in exchange for Ms. Quinzel's..."

"DoC-Torrrr"

"Fine... _Doctor_ Quinzel's safety, I'll be getting what exactly..."

"You, you, you. Everyone is SOOoo demanding. What _you_ get... doc... is _your_ freedom."

Crane smirked. "Thanks to Dr. Arkham, Dr Quinzel is too high profile to be a good candidate for one of my... experiments. She has nothing to fear from me."

Rolling his eyes, he feigned amusement. "Ha! Doc, I just _knew_ you had a sense of humor... nothing to fear from you... good one." Suddenly serious, he pointed at Crane, making sure the glint of the blade had Crane's full attention. "Our deal is that you keep Dr Quinzel busy, and in one piece, for the next week or so... make it look good, you know... and I'll make sure you, uh, get out of this dump."

Crane stepped closer and adjusted his glasses. "Why?"

"I thought you were a crow, not a cat... you stick to your shiny experiments, hmm, and don't ask too many questions. They'll get you killed, you know."

* * *

"Well, it seems we've enticed Dr. Quinzel to come back to us. What does he want with her?"

"I've no idea, nor do I care."

"What am I supposed to _do_ with her? I scarcely believe _you_ are going to agree to therapy sessions with her."

"That is your problem, Dr. Arkham, not mine. Just keep her out of the maximum security ward, and away from my... test subjects. She proved rather annoying last time, wanting to 'help' them, and she started to notice their disappearances."

"I suppose I could assign her to the outpatient ward for now, just as a test period."

Crane smirked. "Don't worry yourself overmuch, Dr. Arkham. I doubt she'll be your problem for too long in any case." He straightened his glasses. "Which reminds me… you will bring her to me when I tell you, and not sooner. Until that time, she needs to believe I am a regular inmate on the maximum security ward... safely locked away."

"So you _do_ want her as a test subject? Crane, there's too much media attention..."

Crane raised his hand and Arkham's protest died in his throat. "I suggest you continue doing what you are told, and not waste time worrying about events you cannot control."

* * *

"Bruce, it will be fine. The asylum is heavily guarded, and they have high end security installed throughout. I'm sure it's even better than when I was there before, and it was pretty well locked down then."

"I'm a member of the board. I should be able to come with you on your first day... what do they have to hide?"

Harley rolled her eyes, then smiled and took his hand. "You don't have to walk me to school, you know. I'm a big girl now."

Bruce frowned, but didn't pull his hand away. "Don't you think it's strange they want you to stay for the whole week? I can easily have a car, or helicopter, drop you off and pick you up every day."

She tried to stifle a laugh, but wasn't entirely successful. "As if there isn't enough media attention on this, you want to fly me around every day in a helicopter, just across Gotham?"

"Just until I can be sure you'll be safe there. You know Joker broke out of there each time he was incarcerated, so the security can't be all that great."

"Yes, but he was breaking _out_, not breaking _in_. I'll only be dealing with Dr. Crane, and I'm sure it will be under heavy guard and heavy supervision. Unless Crane plans an escape, I don't think I'll be in anyone's way."

"There are a lot of innocent victims from those other escape attempts."

"That was Joker, not Crane."

"Yes, but now there's this other guy..."

"... who is running loose in Gotham, not inside the asylum."

He ran a hand roughly through his hair and blew out a big breath. "I still don't see why you want to do this. It puts you in the spotlight and in the path of countless criminals, a lot of really violent criminals... and don't forget, some of them may know something about this other guy running around..."

"Well, maybe I can find out something useful while I'm there."

"No. Harley, don't start playing detective with these guys, ok? Its bad enough you're going to try and get them to reveal their deepest, darkest secrets to you."

"Bruce, it'll be ok, I promise."

* * *

Whistling, she tried to ignore her tingling nerves as she walked down the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway, instead focusing on the way the little tune bounced off the walls around her. Idly, she wondered if her twitchy reaction was merely a phantom from her first stint at the asylum, or something more serious. A lot had happened at, and to, the asylum since she'd last been down these halls, not the least of which had been at the hands of Joker. Her overactive imagination, combined with flashes of newscasts from years ago, supplied her with grisly images from his first escape, a little over a year after she'd last been present. So much had happened in the years since, but she still missed him, felt guilty over missing him, loved Bruce, and was conflicted even further because it was her love for Bruce that kept her strong while walking down the hallways where he'd inflicted so much terror. Whistling a little louder, she tried to drown out her memories and think, instead, about her re-introduction to the asylum.

Her meeting with Arkham had been... interesting... to say the least. She hadn't felt sleaze roll so easily off a single person since the last time she'd bought a used car, but she hadn't detected any lies or misdirection specifically during their talk. Bruce didn't trust Arkham, and after meeting him, she felt exactly the same... feelings of misdirection and slight of hand emanated from his very being. He'd told her exactly what he'd told Mike Engle: he thought her art therapy might get through to Crane in a way other therapies had failed. She questioned what would happen if the therapy failed, both to Crane and to reputation of both the Asylum and Dr Arkham himself, but she got only smoke and mirrors for an answer. She'd seen enough to know Arkham would most likely attribute any failure with Crane directly to her, but she did get him to promise to allow her to videotape her sessions and keep any artwork created. She had no way to hold him to that, except the threat of Bruce Wayne breathing down his neck, which did seem to have some effect on the otherwise imperturbable man. He was mildly discomfited to find out how critical an eye Mr. Wayne would be keeping on her progress, but without knowing more about the nature of Mr. Wayne's interest, Arkham assumed it was only the interest of a concerned board member regarding the use of a newer therapy, on a maximum security patient, by a barely-out-of-school therapist. She smiled.

Reaching her new, and most likely temporary, office, she unlocked the door, flipped the light switch and blinked at the dusty desk and empty bookshelf before her. Clearly the office had been unused for quite some time, and she had a vague recollection that Crane had once used this office prior to becoming director of the asylum. Why it had been kept locked up was a mystery, but one she was unlikely to solve, given its state of bareness and her lack of time to dedicate to this particular puzzle. Instead, she located towels in the nearby restroom and started cleaning out a space for herself and her art supplies, which were currently locked up in a storage unit in the basement. Dr. Arkham had promised to have them retrieved and brought to her office while she was getting 'settled in'. She paused her relentless massacre of dust bunnies long enough to admire the sunset out of the small, barred window in her office. She was pleasantly surprised she had a window, enough so the bars did not distress her overmuch, although they were a curiosity. They were on the outside, which would normally be to keep someone locked inside, rather than on the inside to keep out an intruder. Why a doctor would need to be locked inside the asylum was yet another puzzle she wouldn't have the time to solve. The window was so small that only a slight person, like herself, stood any chance of squeezing through, and she had doubts about even that, so it was very unlikely the window would serve as much of an escape route, or method of entry for that matter. But, she supposed the Asylum had just barred all windows equally, rather than pick and choose. Still, it was an oddity in keeping with the oddness of the entire Asylum.

Unbeknownst to her, another was smiling and whistling the same song. Dressed in a guard's uniform, he stopped outside her open office door and kept his face lowered in shadow. Keeping his voice even, he barely contained his amusement.

"Where do you want these, Ms. Quinzel?"

"Doctor Quinzel, and assuming 'these' are my art supplies, you can just leave them here in my office."

He smirked at her frustration, but noted how she didn't turn or acknowledge him in any way. He'd taught her better than that, to be more careful, to _never_ let her guard down and yet here she was, in the middle of an asylum for the criminally insane where anyone, like him, might be running loose, acting like she had no cares in the world. Well, there was a time for everything. and he'd make it a priority to remind her just why she shouldn't be so trusting. He stepped inside the office and dropped the supplies on the floor, slipping a calling card inside for her to find later. He left the same way he'd come, whistling the same tune. As he disappeared around a corner, he grinned as he heard the rapid clacking of her heels coming into the hallway behind him.

"Wait! Where'd you hear that song?"

He didn't answer, and was well enough ahead of her that even if she followed, she wouldn't find him.

She returned to office, unnerved by the guard and wishing she'd taken the time to get a better look at him. He'd obviously been close enough to hear her whistling earlier, but she didn't remember seeing anyone as she'd walked down the hallway. If she could have at least seen his face, she could have kept an eye out for him, since he'd obviously noticed her. She knew better and kicked herself for acting like the naive psychology intern she'd been so many years ago… as if she hadn't learned anything since then. Even Bruce had warned her not to let her guard down because she was in a new environment, more or less, and surrounded by unknown people in a place of questionably safety. She shook her head and went back to cleaning, this time facing the door. The art supplies had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor, but she'd worry about them later. She needed a place to set them up first anyway, so for now, they were staying put. However, glancing at them was enough to bring back more memories from her first employment at the asylum.

* * *

**(Arkham Asylum - Three and a Half Years Ago)**

"Yes, Ms. Quinzel?"

Dr. Crane's continued refusal of professional courtesy grated on her nerves. She knew, by now, that not calling her Doctor was his entertainment... his way of testing her. She'd only been at the asylum a month before she'd dared to correct him, and for her efforts she'd been assigned a schizophrenic whose main trouble lay in his lack of personal hygiene. Sucking it up, she'd shut off her olfactory senses and worked diligently with Artur. After Artur's first successful voluntary shower, she dared to correct Dr. Crane again because she felt it was a matter of professional pride that she not allow him to walk all over her. He tested that pride by assigning her a serial rapist with a fervent religious delusion. The day she was able to work with Roger without him being restrained, she corrected Dr. Crane the third, and final, time. That day, however, she'd been so certain her success with her patients would at least earn her a grudging respect, that when Dr. Crane laughed at her, she lost her composure and told him exactly what she though of his attitude. But, as they say, the third time is a charm, and after the third time, she never corrected Dr. Crane again. After her rant, throughout which he remained utterly unmoved, she saw the shadows dancing behind his eyes. He enjoyed pushing her buttons, and she could easily make the next logical jump that he enjoyed seeing just how hidden, or accessible, those buttons were. She hadn't given him the satisfaction since, although he persisted in his attempts.

"Joan just told me that you've reassigned one of my patients to yourself... again."

Crane looked up at her with empty eyes, then smirked... the contrast was extremely disconcerting. "Yes. I find that Mr. Solomon requires a different treatment than the one you are able to provide."

"Have you read my case notes? Eric has made substantial progress working with me. When he came here, he had no control over his thoughts, and now he can focus for short bursts. He is able to have lucid conversations!"

"Yes, well, he came here over four months ago and you are just now making baby steps in his treatment. Frankly, his incarceration is almost up, after which he will be paroled."

"He can't be paroled, he's not ready!"

"Precisely, _Doctor_ Quinzel... he only has two months of recovery time left, and based on your past record, he would hardly be ready for release, would he?"

"He still doesn't understand what he's done... he's barely able to talk about what he had for lunch today. Even if you miraculously give him complete control over his mental faculties, there is still the question of him being a danger to society."

Crane sighed, patronizingly, then snapped his notebook shut and folded his hands calmly on top. "That is what his parole is for, Ms. Quinzel." He stood and ushered her out of his office, locking the door behind them. "Regardless, he is not your patient any more, so I suggest you refocus your efforts on those few you have left." He crisply walked away from her, not glancing back.

She muttered under her breath, glaring at his retreating form. "_My_ patients actually _get_ paroled. When was the last time one of your patients left this asylum?"

She walked slowly back to the minimum security ward, giving her usual glance down the side hallway to the securely locked double steel doors. The elevator to maximum security was the only thing concealed by those doors, but it presented a constant temptation. As an intern, she wasn't allowed on the maximum security ward - not even during her orientation tour. Over the past months of her internship, she'd tried to causally ask guards and nurses for any information or stories... she'd settle for rumors... of what went on up there, but they would all react the same way. They'd tense and look away, then mumble something about a confidentiality clause in their job description. The fear, written on each and every one of their faces, was almost as intriguing as its source... almost. She promised herself that she'd get up there, somehow, before her time at Arkham was over.

* * *

**(Arkham Asylum - Present)**

Arkham decreed she'd start out with a few low risk patients, just to 'get back into the swing of things', but treating Dr. Crane, in the mysterious high security ward was a delicious irony she was willing to wait for. She walked down the same twisting hallway to stare at the same secured double doors, and wondered how many days she had left before the ward's secrets were revealed to her. A chill crept up her spine, and she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a security guard, but the hallway was empty. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched however, and she scanned the hallway until she noticed the security cameras carefully placed throughout the ceiling. She smirked at herself for being paranoid, gave the cameras a little wave, and went back to her office.

Leaning casually against the barely-cracked-open hallway door, he watched her take note of the security cameras and smiled at her paranoia. Maybe she hadn't gone as soft as she seemed. Everything was almost in place… very soon, he could start undoing the 'damage' done to her after living in the gray shadow of Bruce Wayne, and unleash the bright red liveliness that had been missing for far too long.


	8. Vices

**A/N - Like pieces on a chessboard, everyone is slowing making their moves. There's a little of everybody in this chapter, except poor Bruce. Don't worry, he's making his moves too.**

* * *

**(Arkham Asylum - present)**

To say she felt like a fraud would be like saying the Joker was a mischief maker. As an intern, she'd felt like an outcast but had paid no attention - she'd expected that. Not only had she been fresh out of school, her choice of therapy technique was not widely practiced, nor accepted. At the time, she'd told herself she was bringing a fresh touch to the Asylum, something it desperately needed, and then she would move on to her own private practice. Life had taken a wild swing, and although she could jokingly say she _had_ started a private practice of sorts, she couldn't exactly claim that experience on her resume. Now she was back, by request no less, as if she were a celebrated member of her field, yet no one could say exactly why she'd been requested. Well, no one aside from Dr. Arkham, and his claims about her success as an intern - but his judgment was considered suspect at best. She didn't have years of private practice to cite in her own defense, not that anyone directly questioned her legitimacy. However, she was a trained observer of the human psyche, and the looks of distrust and, in some cases, jealousy, were impossible to miss. She'd tried being friendly with the guards, nurses and other doctors, but most only gave a brief acknowledgment and more than a few had ignored her completely. The worst part was she didn't blame them. They were completely right to distrust her reasons for being there – and the longer she stayed, the less confidence she had. Having Arkham assign her the low risk patients did not help improve her confidence, either. In fact, between the staff suspicions, and her current patient list, she'd begun questioning not just her ability, but the very reason she was there. How _had_ Dr. Arkham taken notice of her work? Why would he have bothered going through her old case files? Sure, he was treating Crane and had probably reviewed Crane's old case files, including Crane's supervision of her cases. But she'd never treated anyone high profile - Crane would never have allowed that. Several of her patients had been paroled, but only after Crane took over their cases just prior to release, and all had been brought back within six months. All in all, she recalled no case files noteworthy of attracting this kind of attention. It hadn't occurred to her before accepting Dr. Arkham's invitation, but she wondered at her own mental faculties that she hadn't asked the most obvious question - _why_?

She mentioned none of this to Bruce in their phone calls. He'd been convinced it was suspicious from the first news story, and hadn't wanted her to take the job in the first place. Even so, she knew she couldn't say no, but then again, that was a major character flaw she'd had for as long as she could remember. Some day, she would learn to say No, but not yet. Finally, there was the other, much more personal, reason for taking the position. If she really was in any danger, she'd learn sooner rather than later this way. With the media attention surrounding her return to the asylum, the copycat would either come after her, or not, and she was a sink or swim kind of girl. No matter what happened, it would be better than waiting for days, or months, worrying about herself, and Bruce. So, on top of the legitimate suspicions of the staff, her sneaking suspicions about Dr Arkham, and her own completely secret reason for being at the asylum, yes, she felt like a complete and utter fraud. She smiled wryly, thinking of Dr. Arkham. At least she could be sure she wasn't the only fraud in the asylum.

After a few days, with her reserves of optimism depleted, she stopped trying to make friends and resigned herself to focusing only on her work. Truthfully, it was easier to focus on the patients' needs than her own, and since the staff certainly didn't need her, she found them easy enough to ignore. Dr. Arkham, despite his speech on Mike Engle's show, had not seemed particularly in need of her skills either. Based on the case notes of other doctors, the patients reassigned to her for her "warming up" period had no need of her particular skill. They seemed to have been responding well to the more traditional forms of therapy available. She would only be seeing them for the first week of her residency, and such a brief therapy stint certainly wasn't for the patients' benefit. She doubted very much it would be beneficial for her either, but she didn't feel confident enough to force Arkham's hand. He'd stated she would begin work with Crane starting her second week, so 'wasting' a week's worth of her time wasn't such a terrible fate. What she hated most was having a week to stew and worry over meeting with Crane. She hoped to just jump in, just like she had with accepting the job in the first place - no time to second guess. Now she had days to second guess, to plan, and to lose all chance at overcoming her anxiety. Waiting only made it worse, and she briefly wondered if Dr. Arkham was simply sadistic, rather than just being cautious.

Touring the facility had been the one high point thus far, a luxury she'd been denied as an intern. Of course, she'd seen much of the asylum, and it hadn't changed in the intervening years. However, she marveled over the maximum security ward, subject of her curiosity for just as long. Oddly, all the patients had been in either solitary or therapy during their tour, which she assumed was by design – most likely to keep her from Crane. She wasn't even entirely sure who, besides Crane, now resided on the ward. Of course she'd followed the news in the last six months, but her focus had been entirely on looking for anything related to Joker - she'd glossed over most other news stories. The cell doors, unlike the comic books, did not have the inmates names on little cards outside each cell, so she was left wondering. She grinned to herself, realizing she did have one contact who most likely had detailed knowledge of each resident - Batman. That would make for an interesting conversation, after he finished telling her how stupid it was of her to take the job - which he would certainly do. Knocking at her office door interrupted her wandering line of thought.

"Dr. Arkham said to bring you down to exam-room three." The guard glanced at her once, then stared at his feet, looking bored.

"Do all doctors get guarded escort around the Asylum?"

The guard simply shrugged, and gestured for her to lead the way. She locked her office door behind her, then turned and made her way down the maze of corridors - the guard following close behind. Listening for any indication something was amiss at the asylum, since being escorted was rather unusual, she heard only the usual hum of the overhead halogen lights, and the occasional distant echo of a door closing. Reaching the third exam room, the guard swiped his security badge and opened the door for her, but did not follow her in. Instead, he let the door close behind her and waited outside. Arkham was seated in one of two chairs and motioned for her to take the other. Frowning, she observed that he'd chosen the one facing the door, leaving her with her back facing the door. Resisting the urge to twist the chair in a different direction, she wondered if it was some kind of test. She didn't trust for one second the benign smile coating the doctor's face.

"Dr. Quinzel - thank you for joining me. I wanted to familiarize you with the treatment rooms we use for our high security patients. I believe this room will serve well as your particular patient room."

She glanced around the sparse room, noting the absence of everything a normal exam room might contain - table, shelving, desk... panic button. "There certainly is plenty of space..."

"Yes, well, you understand. The high security patients are not allowed contact with anything that might be considered dangerous. These chairs are all we allow, and in most of the rooms, they are bolted to the floor."

"Why not this room?"

"Not all of the high security patients are physically violent. Take Dr. Crane, for example. While he is certainly a danger, we've found that stripped of all his chemicals and accouterments, he has presented no physical threat."

She smirked at the implication. Of course he wasn't a physical threat... just a mental one. "Will Dr. Crane be allowed to use any of the art supplies?"

Arkham frowned, and shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "We must be practical. None of the high security patients are allowed pens or pencils, and we believe paintbrushes are similar enough to be considered too risky."

"What about crayons, or chalk?"

"Those are still being discussed."

"So, are you saying Dr Crane will only be allowed to finger-paint, like a child? How much success do you suppose that will have? Even I would consider that degrading."

"There is some time still, to work out the details."

"A few days, yes, but I would like to know what we can work with prior to seeing Crane. Especially if I will have to convince him that finger-painting is a perfectly adult form of expression." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. The idea was utterly absurd. Not only was the activity clearly associated with young children, Crane was hardly the type of adult to enjoy such a tactile experience. The man avoided physical contact vehemently and, other than Fright Night, always presented a pristine appearance. She didn't need to be a doctor to predict the sticky, messy-ness of paint on his hands would be revolting to him, never mind his predetermined bias against the entire process.

"There is always the chance he will talk to you."

She glanced back at Arkham, considering the equally unlikely possibility he presented. Crane did love to talk, but never about himself, and frankly, talking was the last thing she wanted to do with Crane. She didn't relish the constant battle she'd have keeping the conversation from turning on her, and she was terrified Crane would make her slip somehow... that somehow her connection to Joker would come out. Crane's wolfish ability to smell fear would certainly be used on her, and she did have things to hide - a situation he lived for. No, her entire plan hinged on her ability to have a ready task, and object, to constantly redirect his attention. She took a slow breath. "With all due respect, Dr. Arkham, that isn't why you asked me here. There are plenty of other doctors here Crane could talk to, if that's all you anticipate… you, for example, since you are his primary psychiatrist." She noted, with interest, a haunted look cross Arkham's face, before he composed it back into the smarmy grin he'd started with.

"True, Dr. Quinzel, very true... and I am arguing that point to the board this afternoon. I really do not think you have anything to fear from Dr. Crane and a piece of chalk, but convincing the board is proving slightly more difficult than I anticipated. Never fear, though, I will prevail and I believe you will be able to begin therapy as planned next week."

She heard some rustling in the hallway, and glanced over shoulder. Her guard escort had disappeared from the doorway, and she was not positive that was a good sign. Arkham's voice drew her attention back inside the room.

"In the meantime, I wanted to give you a chance to have a quick meeting with Dr. Crane."

Her heart jumped. Suddenly the reason for having the conversation in the exam room, rather than an office, became sickeningly clear. In the midst of panic, a spark of anger shot through her veins. Arkham was setting her up to fail! First, removing all the tools she needed for a therapy the patient already distrusted, and then setting up her first patient meeting with no time to prepare! It was so far beyond professional that she finally realized every misgiving she'd had about Arkham was correct. The man intended to blame his no doubt abysmal failure with Crane on her, in order to keep the money rolling in to the asylum. He had no expectation of her success with Crane, and in fact, was planning on the opposite. She was so angry that for a moment, she was glad the chairs weren't bolted down because she had an urge to bash his head in with it. She got as far as standing up and reaching for one, when the door behind her opened and she heard the unmistakable sound of rattling chains. Crane. She froze, but didn't miss how Arkham's face changed rapidly from surprise to that haunted look again.

"Ah, Dr. Crane. I do apologize for the change in routine, but please, let me re-introduce you to Dr. Quinzel. She interned with you some years ago, if you recall."

Crane's icy eyes swept over Arkham with unveiled contempt, then coolly flashed to her. Rather than the look of disdain she recalled, his eyes conveyed a decided air of interest, which she found equally disconcerting. She had never been afraid in Crane's presence before... humiliated, angry, and even respectful, yes, but never afraid. She found she was not afraid now, either, despite what she knew of his escapades outside the asylum. She returned his look of interest.

"Ah, yes. Dr. Quinzel. I must say, I did not anticipate running into you here ever again."

Those were the words he used, but his tone of voice said "You weren't good enough to work here again." That was the condescension she was used to, and she relaxed, momentarily forgetting her anger at Arkham. She turned to Arkham and grinned, thoroughly enjoying his obvious discomfort. "Dr. Arkham, are you planning on staying for this meeting, or will you allow Dr Crane to take a seat?"

Arkham blinked at her for a second, but didn't move until Crane nodded at him. She frowned at Arkham's deferential attitude towards Crane - the exchange set off all her warning bells. She watched Arkham leave, then focused on Crane, unsure what sort of situation she was now dealing with. However, despite her concern, Crane took Arkham's seat and adjusted his glasses, waiting for her to sit opposite. He looked entirely too comfortable taking Arkham's place, and all her concerns about avoiding conversation with Crane bounced around her mind. However, she had wished to get started without a chance to second guess herself, and this was her wish come true – even though it was turning out to be a rather dark wish. She took advantage of his polite silence to try and guide the conversation. "Dr. Crane, rather than spend time on the usual first session formalities, why don't we skip ahead." He nodded for her to continue. "Dr. Arkham has asked me to come here because he feels you are a good candidate for art therapy." She noticed the distaste flash across his face, but continued on. "On paper, you certainly are, but I think we both know it's futile. You did not approve of it when you were director here, and I have a hard time believing you wouldn't be resistant to the approach now."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you always give up so easily, Dr. Quinzel?"

She mirrored his position. "Am I wrong?"

"You are the Doctor, I am the patient. Are you deferring to my opinion on my own treatment so soon?"

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I am only asking if you are willing to cooperate with the therapy."

"I have no say in the matter. Dr. Quinzel. However, I will admit a certain curiosity to see how you apply it. Perhaps I did not give your work enough attention before. I am not often wrong, but I do own to the possibility there is more to it than I originally thought."

She leaned back, puzzled by the smug look on his face despite his 'confessing' to potentially being wrong. "May I ask why the change in opinion?"

He smirked. "Oh, I haven't changed it. But, you apparently had some success, didn't you? I simply wish to learn a little more about... well, there will be plenty of time for that later."

She blinked, thoughts whirling. She didn't want to read too much into what he said, but he implied he knew something. He'd taken all her asylum patients away from her, so he surely couldn't mean them, but there was no way for him to know what she'd been doing the last few years, either. She searched his eyes for any kind of clue, any hint of knowledge he may have about her, but they gave nothing away. She frowned. She hoped he was just testing her, for his own twisted amusement, and decided to press on. She'd 'played games' with the best and lived before. "I am glad to hear that Dr. Crane. I'm sure you don't recall, but I used to have an art room to work in. However, maximum security patients, like yourself, are not allowed contact with my usual supplies, or so I'm told."

"Which leaves us with...?"

She waved her fingers at him, and watched the look of disgust flash across his face. She was surprised, however, at how quickly the smirk returned. "Well, Dr. Quinzel, I'm sure we can work something out." He paused, looking thoughtful. "I would like you to explain to me how this technique works, or more to the point, how you think this helps your patients."

She nodded. "Language can be very restrictive, as I'm sure you're aware. It shapes how we think about the world and obviously dictates how we communicate with each other. But, they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes a person can convey more meaning and depth with a single image, than an entire novel."

"Perhaps. But, I fail to see how this helps."

"Images remove the barriers we have in language alone. Some patients can express, through a picture, things they cannot, or will not, say. The images are less threatening than the words, sometimes."

"Do you not see threatening images?"

"What I mean is that patients are less threatened by creating images than constructing sentences."

"...and then sharing them?"

"Yes. Images could mean different things to different people. Sharing a trauma through images is not as scary as speaking about it out loud, or writing it down on paper."

"Yet, to make progress, surely you must use language to discuss the images. It all must out eventually."

"The combination of the two is necessary, yes, and I've found makes a more complete representation than words alone. For a simplistic example, usually the darker an image is, the more distressed the patient is."

"How very Freudian. Do you do dream analysis as well? What if the patient just happens to like black?"

"If you're concerned about my drawing erroneous conclusions based on your color preferences, I promise I'll take that into consideration."

"If I were to draw a happy, light and bright scene, you would consider me eligible for parole?"

She smiled. "It's never that simple, and the parole decision is not mine to make. I will only be providing my assessment on your rehabilitation progress."

"You'll forgive me, Dr. Quinzel, if I fail to see how this could possibly work. Although, I do see how it could be amusing..."

She cocked one eyebrow - in for a penny, in for a pound. "I'll make you a deal, Dr. Crane. I will create something just for you to start the first official session. If you find it interesting, at all, you agree to give this an honest try. If not..."

"I give this a dishonest try?"

She grinned, not caring if he intentionally made a joke or not. "Yes."

A smile ghosted his face, then disappeared. "If it is the latter, how will that help me, Dr. Quinzel?"

"That is entirely up to you. If you truly want help, then I recommend finding something _very_ interesting about whatever I come up with for next week."

"Hm. Tell me, will your project for me be the same caliber as your work with... others?"

She frowned, again, at the implication he had knowledge he shouldn't have. "Of course..."

"Good. How long does it normally take you to create a... project... like that?"

"Several hours, usually... it depends."

"Hm. Very good. I suggest you start sooner rather than later."

As if on cue, the guard knocked at the door, startling her, and entered to retrieve Crane. They both left without giving her a second glance, even though she followed them out of the room. The guard turned to take Crane down the opposite direction she was headed, but she heard the murmur of voices as they went, which she thought odd. The guards barely spoke to her, and she wasn't a convicted, high-risk, felon. With Crane's personality, she found it hard to believe he'd garnered any loyalty during his reign over the asylum. However, most likely neither had Dr. Arkham. Somehow, things with Crane weren't the way they should be, but she couldn't put her finger on anything concrete to back up her suspicion.

She stayed late that night, working on her project for Crane. She almost hadn't, just because he suggested she should, but in the end couldn't resist her own curiosity about what she'd come up with. By the time she called Bruce, Alfred said he'd already retired for the evening, but that Bruce would call her the next morning.

* * *

"Are you sure? I thought you wanted me to keep her away from you?"

Raising a single brow, Crane silenced Arkham. "Dr. Arkham, you may not be terribly observant, but I am. Dr. Quinzel doesn't trust you. I think I will have far more success keeping her occupied, and therefore unaware, of any... unusual... activities in the Asylum."

"I thought you said she was too high profile for your purposes..."

"Oh, I'm not going to use her in my experiments, if that is your concern. No, rather I am interested in this art therapy you've called her in for."

Arkham raised both brows, completely blindsided by this change of direction. "But, but... you hated her work before..."

"Indeed. Dr. Arkham, surely you've heard the old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth?"

Arkham nodded, frowning. Only Crane would consider his offer to 'allow' time with a therapist a gift horse - the man's ego had no limits. He knew he'd be a fool to trust Crane's intentions for a second, but neither could he deny Dr. Quinzel time with Crane, not with the media and GCPD checking in at the end of next week. Curse the man for being so contrary! He'd been prepared to fight with Crane for time, to keep Harley distracted so she wouldn't notice her primary reason for being at the asylum wasn't being fulfilled. Now the man had turned the tables, and taken complete control of the situation, simply by deciding he would do what Arkham had publicly proclaimed he would do in the first place. He could feel the money, and the fame, slipping out of his grasp, and he had no idea why, or how to grab hold again.

As Arkham left the lab, Crane smiled to himself. He _had_ promised the clown he'd keep an eye on Dr. Quinzel, to keep her out of the spotlight as much as possible, and therefore, out of trouble. Why the clown thought Dr. Quinzel, of all people, would be trouble was a mystery. He'd never seen any indications Harleen was more than a very quiet, artistic, wallflower. Not particularly brilliant, and perhaps naive, but certainly not trouble. Then again, he had yet to unearth the reason the clown had brought Dr. Quinzel to the asylum in the first place. There was something he couldn't put his finger on whenever the clown mentioned her. And today, when discussing Harleen's internship artwork, she'd looked suspicious... defensiveness radiated from her like a heat wave. They were both concealing something, and he very much wanted to find out what - it could provide leverage. Speaking of which, he decided it was time to check in on Dr. Quinzel. His interest in her 'art therapy' was not a complete lie. He had no doubt that the material created by the disturbed minds in the asylum could be _very_ useful for his own experiments. He sighed to himself. Even though he'd taken every single case away from her, she'd never figured out that he was using her material against her own patients in the end. She'd never learned to ask the right questions, and based on the earlier conversation, he was confident she still wouldn't.

* * *

Leaning casually against the wall, he tugged the guard hat down a little further his forehead, looking forward to taking it off for good. Oh sure, he enjoyed strolling through the asylum, head down of course, completely unnoticed by all those who _should_ notice. The security in the asylum was in name only. Any security team worth their salt would at least know what guards were on duty, and in what part of the asylum. Yet he'd been in and out, walked all over, without once being questioned. The security team was understaffed, and apparently underpaid. A few stacks of bills was all it took to keep the camera watchmen focused on internet surfing, and the head security guard forgetful of how many guards were on duty at any particular time. Well, a few stacks of bills and a hatred for Dr. Arkham.

Humming from the nearby office door brought him back from his musings. He'd peeked in on Harley earlier, surprised to discover she was elbow deep in one of her 'projects'. None of her patients were worthy of such effort, and he scowled, wondering if it was for her 'boyfriend'. Then he noticed the huge, icy blue and white landscape, and what looked like... maybe... frozen bodies? He chuckled. He knew somebody whose personality might fit that description - a certain committed doctor who currently had free reign over his own incarceration. So Harley was making something for Crane... now that was interesting. Harley's art was always so... primal... he could only imagine how revolted Crane would be. Now there was someone who should smile more! Well, at least Harley would be occupied for some time. He heard footsteps approaching from behind, and tilted his head back around to see who else would be interested in these particular halls. Halls that contained no one but Harley - he'd made sure of that before she arrived.

"What are _you_ doing up here? Are you cr... never mind." Crane pinched his brow, frustrated at how easily the clown could unnerve him. Even without the makeup, and in the guard's uniform, the man was eery. _Calm down, Johnny Boy. Let ME talk to him._ NO! You are not picking a fight with the clown tonight. _Aren't you the least curious why he's up here spying on cute little Harley?_ Dr. Quinzel, and of course I am. However, that's why _you_ are not talking to him.

He watched Crane's eyes flicker, and wondered if Harley would get a chance to dig around in Crane's head - now that would be useful. "Hey, doc-TOR… you, uh, wouldn't be checking up on anybody, now would you?" He slid his knife from his sleeve, slowly twirling it between his fingers. He loved the feel of it in his hand and, truthfully, was just itching to use it.

"I spent some time... speaking... with Dr. Quinzel." Crane casually glanced towards her office, smirked, and then lazily gazed back at the clown. "Cute. Not too bright, though, I'm afraid. That's too bad, since I'll be spending so much time with her. I am afraid I might get... bored..." The clown closed one eye, but focused the other directly on Crane. Crane had been told his own icy blue gaze was chilling, but he thought perhaps that was because no one had stared into the clown's eyes for very long. The clown didn't speak for a very long time, then suddenly relaxed and grinned.

"So, you're, uh, gonna be spending some time with Har... Dr. Quinzel, huh?"

Crane nodded, frowning when the clown smirked.

"She… making… something for you right now?"

Crane tried peering past the clown, but gave up. "She did offer to..." Crane expected another cold stare, but was instead greeting with barely contained laughter. The sound echoed in the asylum hallways, and he scowled. "Quiet - unless you _want_ her to hear you!"

So Crane _was_ up here to check up on Harley. Interesting. "Ah doc, when she's wrapped up in something, she wouldn't notice an earthquake." He paused, considering why Harley might have 'offered' one of her projects to Crane, then grinned. "So, does this mean you're gonna do her theeeerapy? HA! I can't wait to see what she... I mean you... come up with!" He started laughing all over again, imagining Crane's horror after seeing Harley's take. Ah Harley - she always saw so much and realized so little.

"You did ask me to keep an eye on her." Crane shrugged. "I could always leave her to her own devices...". He was cutoff, mainly by the cinder-block wall suddenly colliding with the back of his head.

"Promise is a promise, doc."

Crane wrinkled his nose and wondered how anyone could stand to be around the clown for very long. "Yes, well... how long do I have with her?" He leered, expecting to be slammed against the wall again. The clown simply let go instead, and Crane's head started to pound, both from the knock to the head and the frustration of dealing with such a volatile personality.

"Ah, I trust you doc. Somehow I don't think Dr. Quinzel's your, uh, type, anyway. Besides, this is a gooooood thing. I doubt if she trusts ya further than she can throw ya, but I bet she trusts you more than Arkham... and that's all that'll matter."

"Neither should be a problem, her trust or her time. You didn't answer my question." Crane was not pleased, but also not surprised, to see the glint of a steel blade suddenly appear, very close to his face.

"Now doc, I told you before about curiosity and the cat. Stop trying to ruin the surprise. Just make sure, when I give you the word, Harley goes with you."

Crane raised his brows and blinked. "You want me to take her? You were the one who wanted her here..." The clown interrupted, waving the knife around casually.

"Calm down, doc. She just needs to go with you. She won't be with you for very long."

"For a man with no plans, this certainly sounds well thought out." Crane felt another dull thud as his head slammed into the wall once again - the throbbing gaining momentum. However, the scowl on the clown's face was worth it. Speaking about Dr. Quinzel did seem to strike a nerve.

"Doc, I don't have plans, I just have ideas." He grabbed Crane and yanked him onto his tiptoes. "You really need to loosen up." He grinned and dropped Crane back on his feet, laughing as Crane wobbled to regain balance.

Crane watched the clown lean away, with his back against the wall, facing Dr. Quinzel's office. The voice whispered that one of these days, the cocky overconfidence would be the clown's undoing, preferably by a needled hand. Crane nodded in agreement and turned to leave. Checking on Dr. Quinzel later would work out better after all.


	9. Intermezzo

Later than usual, she headed out of the asylum towards her asylum-provided residence. Icy blues and deadly skies, based on news images she recalled from Fright Night, ran through her mind for hours. She'd painted until, exhausted, the ideas finally floated away. She was fairly pleased with the final product, certain that if nothing else, Crane would be fascinated enough to dissect the images she associated with him. Narcissist that he was, he wouldn't be able to resist picking apart each element, looking for clues into her mind, until he was so caught up in evaluation he'd be forced to admit he was taking it more or less seriously. Probably a dirty, psychiatric trick on her part, but considering Crane's past, turn-about was fair play. She smiled to herself before looking over her shoulder - a habit she'd developed during the week. Given the late hour, and her experience the previous nights walking 'home' alone, she wasn't surprised at the stark silence on the asylum campus quad. Still, she found it unnerving, and she glanced over her shoulder repeatedly every night, futilely looking for the source of the chill that crept down her spine. During the day, the nicely landscaped quad between the main building and her apartment was a patient recreation area, but at night it became eerily silent - apparently even the crickets knew better than to make their presence known. She knew she was being paranoid - most of the asylum staff lived in the on-site residences during the week, now that access to the island was under strict police control. At this time of night, the first shift workers were in bed, the second shift workers were not quite finished working, and the skeleton crew for third shift hadn't yet risen for the night. It left her alone, yet surrounded by people - even if she couldn't see a soul.

As she'd walked to her temporary apartment the first night, she'd just barely caught a dark shadow flitting across the quad. She'd turned back towards the main building for a better look, but couldn't locate a source - not one that moved. The asylum was an old, Gothic style building with gargoyles on the roof, and it cast a variety of interesting shadows at night. Interesting enough to remind her of all the black and white horror movies she watched every Saturday night as a child. The second night, she clearly saw the same shadow move, only this time the shadow was unmistakable – the shape of a bat. She smiled in relief, and waved overhead to both protectors... the gargoyles and the Batman. Neither waved back, and although she wasn't completely assured it was the Batman, she preferred that explanation to any other. It made her feel better to think he was checking up on her. She hadn't seen much of him since she'd moved out of Bruce's penthouse, but she was glad he might still be around. After talking with Bruce each night, she'd watch the news before she went to bed, and every night Batman had at least one feature story, as he tried to track down the source of the new Joker crimes. She would never expect him to take time away from his primary priority just to check on her, but then again, he probably wasn't entirely convinced she wasn't involved somehow. Either way, whether he was watching out for her out of a sense of duty, or as part of his crime-fighting, having him nearby for a brief time was comforting. However, as the first week wrapped up, the Joker crimes escalated - two warehouses burned to the ground, both previous crime sites, and two police officers were found dead under very suspicious circumstances. Both officers were posthumously under investigation for illegal drug trafficking and other not-yet-revealed counts of police corruption. Not surprisingly, she hadn't seen the bat-shadow the last two nights on her way home. However, she'd arrived without incident, talked to Bruce, and promised him she'd be waiting outside the asylum by 5pm Friday afternoon so that Alfred could bring her back to the mansion for the weekend.

That night, she dreamed of waking up in the middle of the night to the whistling of a familiar tune, unsure of her surroundings or where the melody was coming from. Straining to see in the dark, she finally made out a shadow of a man, dead almost a year, leaning against her door-frame. Only his outline was visible, but the casually threatening stance was unmistakable... she'd seen it too many times in real life to not recognize him. She'd tried to talk, and move, but as in most of her dreams, had no control over her paralyzed dream-self. Instead, she could only listen to the melody, but realized that as she did, her panic was slowly ebbing away. Just before she lost the dream entirely, a quiet laugh from the doorway brought her completely upright in bed, rapidly blinking away the remnants of the dream that hadn't quite faded on its own. In her hazy state, she swore she heard a door close, but by the time she'd shaken off the grogginess, she wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. Getting out of bed, she checked the front door and windows, but all remained locked, just as she'd left them. She shook her head, annoyed at her mind for playing dirty tricks on her and depriving her of much needed sleep. If _he'd_ really been there, alive after all this time, there was no way he would sneak in and out, just to whistle a stupid little song and laugh at her. No, that was definitely reminiscent of those black and white horror movies, better fitting a Gothic vampire tale than her crazy life in Gotham. The stress of adjusting to her job at the asylum, and her anxiety over beginning sessions with Dr. Crane the coming week, were more likely the main sources of her 'nightmare'. Once she got back to the mansion, back to Bruce, she'd feel normal again... but she couldn't quite shake the strange calm she'd had in the dream, and she slept fitfully the rest of the night.

The next morning, as she laughed at herself for having such a ghoulish dream, she realized if she'd thought for half a second, there was a halfway reasonable explanation. As the week had progressed, she'd heard an echoing tune float by her office door many times, but each time she went to the hallway, she found only empty space. The asylum's twisting and turning hallways made it almost impossible to tell where the sound was coming from, and after a few unsuccessful forays, she gave up trying to locate the person responsible. Wandering through the asylum hadn't been a complete waste of time, though, because she'd at least gotten used to the constant security camera surveillance. Still, cameras aside, there were times she could swear someone was watching her, but as with the whistling, she could never find anyone. The mysterious whistling, and creepy sense of being watched, was disturbing enough, but never locating a source also meant she _was_ actually alone in the corridors surrounding her office - a fact she'd neglected to mention to Bruce each day when he called, knowing he'd just worry even more. She'd been treating a majority of the low-risk patients, whose sessions kept her occupied during the day, but by late each afternoon, she felt isolated enough to frequently reconsider Bruce's offer to leave the asylum at night. However, by far the most disconcerting experience at the asylum was walking out of the main building and over to her apartment. The whole week had been a series of creepy events, so it was no wonder she'd finally had a creepy dream about them.

* * *

From a windowed vantage point, obscured by daylight reflection, he watched her get into the back seat of the black sedan. The car screamed billionaire in the way only a non-descript, tinted-window, luxury sedan could. He was tempted to shoot out the tires, but instead turned back and disappeared into the asylum corridors. Let her have her final weekend living the lifestyle of the rich and famous - it'd be fresh in her mind when she finally told the playboy to take a hike. Oh, certainly, it would be with a lot of drama and tears, but ultimately, that's what she would do. Her oversized empathy and self-sacrificing nature would let her do no less. She wouldn't turn her back on him, especially not 'recently arisen from the grave', and neither would she drag Bruce Wayne into her old life. The only reason he was even giving her a choice, empty though it may be, was to see the look on the playboy's face when Harley told him she was choosing him over the playboy and his billions.

Before he'd 'died', he'd let her stay in the shadows, enjoyed meeting up with her, free from all the other idiots he was usually surrounded with, and tired of his own company. He'd never forced her to condone his life, and instead let her talk to him in pictures and metaphors because, honestly, it was easier. He didn't want to talk, he didn't need her to listen, but he did like seeing how she explained everything away - how she tried so hard to understand him. He'd had her undivided attention, and not because he demanded it with knives and bullets... well, not after a while... but because she'd _wanted_ to give it to him. The best part was, when he tired of her, or sometimes when he was particularly inspired, he could just leave until he felt like seeing her again. He frowned. Before, he could leave her on her own, more or less, and trust that she'd be there waiting whenever he felt like coming back. But now... now things were different. She'd changed things, gotten involved with Gotham's most famous citizen - hadn't waited for him to come back. He wondered if Bruce Wayne even knew about Harley's past with him. He almost hoped not, because that would be the icing on the cake when Harley just walked away from everything Wayne had to offer - and Wayne was just the beginning. He didn't want to stash her away in the shadows anymore. She was ready to keep up with him, to be a willing participant. She just needed to find a reason, and he planned on giving it to her. He didn't need any more helpers, because the asylum... thanks to Crane... provided plenty. No, he didn't need her for that. He wanted her to send his messages, messages that couldn't be ignored… to paint Gotham up in a way no one could miss. Time to dance on graves and spit in the faces of this city... and it all started with the face of Bruce Wayne. He made a mental note to leave a single rose on her desk, so she would find it first thing Monday morning.


	10. Tinder

Unlocking her office door, she dragged her suitcases inside. Bruce had refused to bring her back Sunday night, which was endearing, but also frustrating, because it left no time to stop by her temporary apartment to unpack before her Monday shift began. She'd wanted Sunday night to relax and prepare for Dr. Crane, but Bruce had turned his big brown eyes on her and she caved. She should have stood strong on principle, because he'd been gone most of the weekend. It would have served him right, but she'd missed him too much.

Spending the entire previous week alone every night had been depressing. She hadn't slept alone for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like, and didn't look forward to another week of the same. Some kind of huge business deal kept Bruce in town, working long days, and nights. He offered to fly her 'home' every night, again, even though he wouldn't always be there, but she said no... again. Flying around in helicopters was nerve wracking, and there was no way she'd spend time on her case files if she was at the mansion. She needed to be on her game with Crane, and Bruce - if he was home - would be a huge distraction.

Slipping on her lab coat, she turning towards her desk, and froze. A clear vase holding a single, barely blooming, rose sat prominently front and center. Her mouth dropped open - she stared in stunned silence. How did Bruce get a rose into her locked office? Of course, he was Bruce Wayne… he could do whatever he liked. She smiled, walking around her desk and sitting on the edge. She picked up the vase to more closely admire the blood red flower. She'd always loved lilies and roses best - their velvety texture was amazing, and their colors were always so vivid.

She turned the card over. There was only a single letter scrawled in red… a J. Shaking, she clutched the vase to keep from dropping it.. Her chest constricted, and her panicked breathing whooshed in time to the rush of blood through her head. She felt dizzy, falling back heavily into her chair. Setting the vase down carefully, she rolled the chair as far away as she could - never taking her eyes off the vibrant red petals and matching script. What had seemed so beautiful now seemed ominous, and she focused on calming her breathing before she had a full blown panic attack. To distract herself, she started talking out loud, a habit she'd formed as a child whenever she felt overwhelmed.

"No, no, no! Not possible. Not funny!"

She started to rise, but failed. Warring impulses confused her senses, and she felt like she needed to _do_ something. Smash the thing against the wall; check the card to make sure she hadn't imagined the 'signature'; run out of the office screaming bloody murder... but she did none of those things. She simply stared at the rose, shaking from her inability to act. In another dizzying rush, images and bits of conversation flooded her mind. The whistling outside her office door, the whistling from her dream, Crane looking entirely too smug, Crane acting like he control of the asylum... they all pointed to a reality she was not prepared to face. She really wanted to smash the vase - as if making it disappear would somehow return her life to normal. She let her head drop between her knees and forced herself to think out loud.

"Ok, Harley, what are you going to do?"

"He's alive."

"No. No, no, no, NO!"

"Yes... he could be"

"Why now? Why did he do it?"

"Don't be stupid, you'll never know why - you aren't asking the right questions! Think Harley! He wants you to know."

"Why?"

"Because he knows you won't do anything... you won't say a word to anyone."

"Oh God, he's right."

"He was here, sometime between Friday and now. He could still be here, watching you. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you melt down. Pull yourself together."

"Ok, pull myself together. I'll do nothing. I'll leave the rose right where he put it and carry on. I'm not going looking for him, he can come to me."

"Good idea, now you're sounding like yourself!"

Now settled in her mind, she scooted the vase back where she found it, and forced herself to smile at it. She told herself it was a good thing, and hoped if she told herself often enough, she'd believe it. Slipping the card off the vase, she stuck it in her lab coat pocket. While no one was supposed to be in her office, it wouldn't do to have someone discover the card and make a wild speculation. She realized, belatedly, one positive outcome... she wasn't worried about Crane any longer.

* * *

As she walked towards the patient room, carrying the supplies Crane requested, she noticed a serious lack of personnel in the hallways. She hadn't seen a single guard, hadn't heard the far off noises of doors slamming, or even footsteps. She bit back a tinge of fear, reminding herself that she'd brought two sedative syringes in case there were any problems. Putting everything down to swipe her access card, she had to carefully balance the door while scooting the supplies through. Glancing at Crane, who remained seated, she noticed he sat watching her with amusement. She rolled her eyes, mainly at herself. Had she really expected Crane to help her? She must be losing her mind, or getting far too used to having Bruce around.

As she set canvas upon the easel, she realized just how many weapons a person could make if they broke the easel apart. Although, now she knew, if Crane did something crazy, he wouldn't be the only one with a makeshift weapon. She grinned to herself. After she finished laying out everything they'd need, she pulled a chair across from Crane.

"So, before we begin with the paint, let's chat. How was your weekend?" He sneered, and she held back a smirk.

"You don't seriously think I would spend my time engaging in small talk."

"Too boring? Ok, well, tell me your thoughts on Jeremiah Arkham."

"You try my patience, Dr. Quinzel. I seem to recall that from before, when you were an intern here."

"Still too boring? Hm, ok, how about your diagnosis of yourself."

He leaned forward, eyes flashing and sneered at her again. "If you can't direct the session, then I will. How about let's start with my diagnosis of _you_." She smiled. "Fine. But do it over there on that canvas, even if it just means you make a bunch of red X's." He narrowed his eyes. "You intended to irritate me. I see." He leaned closer. "Dangerous tactic, Dr. Quinzel." She leaned forward. "If you want to put me in my place, you can do it. You can sit here and do nothing for the entire hour. However, I won't tell you how this works unless you participate."

"Attempting to provoke me is part of your process?"

"With you, yes."

"Very well."

Walking to the canvas, he eyed it with disdain while grabbing the green finger-paint tube and squeezing some out on the palette. He started poking clustered green dots onto the canvas, and then spoke. "Now, about your process..."

"Art therapy is a way to express things… usually emotional things. For example, I had a schizophrenic whose artwork was brilliant, but he could only write nonsense if given a pen and paper."

"Yes, Mr. Libby - I recall. However, I'm not schizophrenic."

"No, you're not. However, you keep your emotions reigned in so tightly it takes an outside irritant, like the Batman, to loosen them up."

"I still fail to see how this method applies to me."

She paused. "So, there isn't anything that bothers you... really bothers you? Not that Batman out-maneuvered you? Not that you _were_ Gotham's number one criminal until Joker burst on the scene? Not even that you have to sit here and listen to me?"

He continued poking green dots, but grabbed a yellow tube and a brown tube and start making slashing strokes. "I handle frustration remarkably well, Dr. Quinzel, so no, I cannot say I'm particularly disturbed by any of those things."

"Or won't admit to it anyway."

"Perhaps."

"Fine. As you know, there is usually severe childhood trauma involved in the dissociative disorder you've displayed. Nothing from childhood - old grudges... a little vengeance?"

He grabbed a blue tube, squirted the gel-like paint directly on the canvas and began smearing it around. She could slowly see images forming, rudimentary, but there nonetheless. Hedgerows, a field of something, a blue sky... a dark blue sky... and an empty place directly in the center of the field.

"My childhood hardly directs my life."

"Oh come on, you don't really believe that. Our childhood shapes us in permanent ways." She waited for a response, but got nothing. "It doesn't matter. You don't have to tell me anything. I'm just throwing out starters to see what lights on fire. When something flares up, use it."

"And yet, you will derive some sort of meaning from the art after it all, so it must be discussed."

"Look on it as an experiment, Dr. Crane. Make whatever you think would stimulate an interesting discussion. It doesn't have to be real, but in my experience, it's a lot harder to create something that means nothing to you."

He didn't speak for a long while, but he did continue to paint. He hadn't quit or gotten violent – she considered the session a success thus far. When he did speak again, it seemed a side-thought to his activity.

"Back to the process Dr. Quinzel... I take it your approach to patients is not the same when introducing this activity?"

"That's correct - some patients need no prodding whatsoever, and some doodle before they start doing anything meaningful. It's usually different depending on the person."

"What about a volatile personality... say, someone whose reactions you couldn't predict?"

She frowned and fingered the card in her pocket. "I'd make something first and let them watch, or else just bring it to them and see what happens. Usually it's at least interesting enough to get them involved before they realize it, and it keeps them focused."

"Which is how you handled me. Interesting. Do you see me as a volatile personality?"

"You're hardly without boundaries, like the type you're describing. Still, you must admit, you were at least a little interested in what I'd made for you."

"A little. And you didn't answer my question."

"I think you _could_ be a volatile personality, but I took this approach because you needed to see it. I'd do the same with any other scientist."

"Fine. I'm satisfied that I understand the method you use to start this process. Explain to me more about the 'art of communication' involved. How do you learn about your patients?"

"If you had to draw freedom, what would you draw?"

"I don't know, the statue of liberty I suppose."

"I would draw a flock of birds. They aren't the same at all, yet they represent the same thing to us. For example, if I drew a caged bird and then a flock of birds flying in the sky, the meaning isn't complicated to derive. I might feel trapped, or be afraid of being trapped, or maybe I even wish for structure... but the bottom line is about personal freedom."

He wiped his fingers on a paper towel, tilted his head at the canvas, then turned his back on it and sat down again. "What do you make of mine then? Amaze me, Dr. Quinzel."

"You drew a distant field of... corn maybe... and that field is blocked by a hedgerow. In the middle there is a big white space that looks like it needs filled." She eyed him carefully, and continued on. "I'd say, based on your history, that's where a scarecrow might go... but it's missing." He raised a brow, looking unimpressed, but she could see his body tense. "I'd say you feel blocked off from a part of yourself, a part that you feel is missing."

He narrowed his eyes and turned to the painting, tilting his head and staring, unblinking. Abruptly he turned back and smiled. "Well, that hardly requires any thought, knowing my history as you do. Although it's quite a leap to suggest I want the empty space to be filled."

"True, that's merely speculation, but it gets the conversation started, doesn't it?"

"And what if I don't like your interpretations?"

"I have no doubt you'll tell me, Dr. Crane."

He smirked. "Well, this has been very enlightening Dr. Quinzel. I see my escort has arrived. I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

She glanced at the door to see it propped open partially by a guard - the first one she'd seen all morning. "Yes, tomorrow."

* * *

"Well, doc... did ya learn what you wanted? Hm?"

"Harleen is an open book. Of course I did." Crane glanced at the smirking face next to him. "I can't imagine how she keeps you entertained."

He clicked his lips, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, and then turned his entire face towards Crane. "Good. I wouldn't want you... uh... torturing yourself over things you'll never know. On second thought..."

Crane sighed. "I meant that she's not particularly insightful. Any other ways she may keep you entertained I certainly don't want to know about."

"She's not, huh? Here I thought she nailed you pretty good."

"How long were you at the door... and how did you manage to listen in?"

"I heard enough. And I, uh, saw what she made for ya."

"Yes, it was nice. Jealous?"

"I got all the time in the world to get what I want from her. You don't, however. I, ah, recommend that tomorrow you learn what you want. Don't know how many chances after that you're gonna get."

Crane stopped, feeling real anger creep in for the first time in a long time. "Two days? Were you going to warn me? At all? How do you expect me to look out for your precious Harleen without any notice?" He took several steps backwards as the clown advanced on him, but his anger didn't diminish.

"I'm telling you _now_. That's plenty of notice." He raised a single finger and slowly pointed it at Crane, who found it particularly disturbing. "You just do what you're supposed to do and it'll all be fine." He abruptly dropped his hand and grinned. "Scouts honor."

Crane scowled. "Fine. How exactly will I know when it's time?"

"Oh, you'll know."

* * *

He stood outside her door, debating with himself - a situation he rarely found himself in. He'd meant to wait until after he sprung the bat-trap to get re-acquainted, but after seeing her go off to her rich boyfriend's, seeing her with Crane... watching her sleeping... he was getting impatient. At first, he liked watching her from afar - noticing all the little things that hadn't changed about her, and the very few that had. She walked differently, for one thing, and she was much bolder than she used to be. He grinned. He knew she was a survivor - that she'd recover from this shock the same way she'd recovered from his death. Now... now seemed like as good a time as any. The bat would be busy elsewhere, he'd made sure of it, and her rich boyfriend didn't seem inclined to lower himself to the dregs of hell - which is how he affectionately thought of this place.

He tilted his head down, hiding his face in the shadow of his hat, and knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

"You left something in the therapy room, Dr. Quinzel." He almost burst out laughing at his own voice - he sounded so... normal.

"Oh, just a minute."

He stared at the floor, grinning, until he heard her footsteps reach the door and the lock click open. He watched the bottom of the door swing open, and noticed her black heels adorning shapely legs. He schooled his face and waited.

"What did I leave? I swear I got everything..."

"You can't think of a single thing that's missing, doctor?" He could help but let his natural hiss creep in, and he delighted in her soft gasp. He watched her knees go stiff, before slowly raising his head. He couldn't help but enjoy the view on the way up - red and black short skirt, low cut black shirt hidden by the lab coat, her long neck and finally, her red lips. He paused there just a split second longer than he meant too before meeting her eyes.

It'd taken forever to pack up the supplies because there was no sink to clean up with. She'd had to make several trips to her office to avoid spilling paint everywhere, and she'd tried several locked doors looking for a janitor's closet. Of course they'd keep the doors locked, but with no one else around, she had to try. Finally, she collected the last of it and went to her office, doing her best to cover the open paint palette. She locked the door behind herself and set about putting away as much as she could, with as little mess as possible. She'd just sat down at her desk, staring at the rose she'd forgotten about, when a knock interrupted her ponderings. Not wishing to be disturbed, she didn't bother to get up.

"Yes?"

"You left something in the therapy room, Dr. Quinzel."

She frowned - she knew she couldn't have, she'd triple checked that room before she left. "Oh." Still, she got up to look at her supplies to see if anything was missing. "Just a minute." After searching, she huffed, wondering why she had to be bothered with this. Stomping over to the door, she flung it open, "What did I leave? I swear I got everything..." and froze, immediately, before she even knew why. A tall, lanky guard with his face hidden stood just on the other side, rough hands hanging at his sides. Her mind started to reel, and then he spoke.

"You can't think of a single thing that's missing, doctor?"

She felt faint, worse than with the rose, and grabbed the door for support. Watching him slowly raise his face to hers, she shook her head _no_ as she stared... _his_ face... _his_ scars... _his_ smile. She blinked rapidly and the pounding in her ears increased. Everything she'd hoped for, and dreaded, was standing not a foot away from her.

She didn't think, she just acted.- she launched herself at him, knocking him back a few steps and making him wrap one arm around her for balance. Her mind was yelling "Not possible" while her body was clinging onto something so familiar she couldn't let go. She started shaking, and then, without warning, she started beating on his chest. He grabbed both her hands and shoved her back in her office, kicking the door shut behind them, struggling to keep her still.

"Hey, hey... HEY." He yanked her forward and pinned her arms to her side. She looked up at his face again, still not quite believing he was standing in front of her, and completely unable to process all the divergent emotions that were crashing through her. She hated and resented him… she was furious with him… and she never wanted to let him out of her sight again. A single question burned through her brain until it came out of her mouth. "Why?"

"Why what? That's so..."

"Don't!" He stopped speaking and raised both brows, blinking. "Just don't. You know exactly what I mean, so don't play games with me!" He let go of both her hands and stepped back, hands in his pockets. He glanced over at the rose, and then back, staring pointedly. She blinked, confused, glancing at the rose herself. "Why are you here?"

"Because..." he stepped closer, hands still in his pockets, and looked down at her, "you belong with me."

"Now? But I didn't yesterday, or last month, or six months ago? You left me behind!"

He reached out and cupped her face, fingers digging into her cheek. "It was for your own good."

"My own..."

She found her words dying out as he pulled her face up and killed them with a kiss. Her body responded before her mind, again, and she found herself kissing him back - putting all her frustration and anger into that kiss. They dueled for minutes, pushing each other forward a step here, backward a step there, until she had him pressed against the wall. With a grunt, he picked her up and walked them to her desk, sitting her down and settling himself between her legs. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back away from him, staring.

"You taste like a billionaire." Her eyes and mouth both dropped open at once, and she scrambled to sit up. He didn't let her, and leaned forward until she was pinned to the desk.

"You left me behind! What, did you think nobody else would want me?"

"How long did you wait, a week? Maybe two?"

If he hadn't pinned her arms, she'd have slapped him. She knew, deep down, he was just provoking her for his own amusement, but she was outraged that he'd toy with her now, after everything. Her rage fueled the fight he was picking with her, and she escalated. "A day, actually. I keep meaning to thank Batman for dropping me off at Bruce's penthouse. It was like heaven waking up in _his_ bed. Oh wait. I mean waking up in _any_ bed."

"Spoiled, Harley?"

"If by spoiled you mean did I like having a gentleman treat me like a lady, then yeah, I am." He narrowed his eyes, and she knew she should back off. She'd seen that look before... knew what it meant. He was done playing. But she didn't. He'd driven her to Bruce, and she was glad, for a moment, that he had. "I can say what I want around him and not worry about being tossed out a window. He actually worries about me, instead of it only being the other way around. So yeah. I am spoiled."

With a great crash he shoved her sideways and she had to twist over on her stomach to keep herself from sliding off the desk onto the floor in a heap. She just barely righted herself when he slammed her up against the door, pressing her face into the wood. "You really should stop when you're ahead."

"Why should I? You don't!"

"The difference is, I could kill you with a little twist of my wrist."

"Then do it! You'll do whatever the hell you want with me anyway, it's not like I can stop you."

With another grunt, he shoved her but then let go and spun around, stomping over to the wall and leaning against it. "You know, you used to be so quiet. I liked that about you."

She started to retort, but was caught with a fit of giggles. He looked so frustrated she couldn't help but burst out laughing. It didn't take more than a few seconds before he joined her.

"Harley, Harley, what am I gonna do with you?"

Even though he spoke in a lighthearted tone, the question quieted her laughter. "You tell me."

"Well, it seems to me like you need to make a choice… me or him. I've got brains, ambition and charm. He's got... money."

"... and looks." She piped in. "But yours aren't bad either."

"Anyway..." he glared at her,"... you have to choose, Harley."

She wanted to agonize over it, pretend like it was a tough choice. She felt like it _should_ be a tough choice, and felt guilty that it wasn't. She loved Bruce, but she molded her life around Joker - she was connected to him in a way she couldn't even explain. There wasn't any real choice, and Bruce knew it too. It's why he didn't want her here, didn't want her to let this man ruin her life again. She looked up at Joker, and was surprised to see him studying her, as if he was looking for the answer. "J, you know my choice. You wouldn't be here if you didn't." He studied her for a few more minutes, then grinned.

"Yeah, I know, I just wanted you to say it."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to have to get used to saying it… a lot. See, you belong with me Harley, and this time everyone will know it, because you'll tell them. Or show them. Either way."

"... what?"

"Well, see, first you're going to crush the playboy, then we'll crush Gotham, together."

She struggled to keep up with his words. That wasn't how it was last time - he left her out of everything... wanted her out of everything. Now he wanted her in? "I don't know how to be what you are!"

"No, no. You're going to be you, only... better. Now listen, you go about your day. I'll be... around." He walked over to her and grabbed her face again, crushing another kiss on her lips before he dropped her and headed for the door. "Oh, and Harley. I'll see you tonight."

* * *

He sauntered away from her office, pleased with how that had gone. He'd expected more of a fight, or a crying fit, or some other female hassle. Instead he got a little bit of spirit, got to throw her around, and more importantly, got to remind himself how she tasted. He licked his lips. He also got her pointed in the right direction again... his. He knew it'd take a little work removing all traces of Bruce Wayne, but he was looking forward to that part. Starting tonight.


	11. Night Terrors

**A/N** - Time to revisit characterizations. Harley isn't Harley from the cartoons - she's been re-imagined for Nolanverse. My Joker may seem OOC for Nolan-verse, however, I think he molds himself to his audience and situation - how he acts depends on who he is with and what he wants from them. Because of that, and based on what he wants from Harley, **there is an intimate scene between them towards the end of this chapter**. I've _italicized_ that section so you can more easily skip it, if it makes you uncomfortable. Also, in this chapter specifically Joker may seem more OOC because you're seeing him partly through her eyes.

* * *

The phone shook in her hand, thumb lingering over the green 'call' button. After leaving her office at lunchtime, she'd dragged her suitcases to her apartment and closed herself inside. She'd almost pushed the button twice, but something held her back. Staring at her thumb, she willed it to move – either push the button or move away from it. She didn't care so long as it stopped hovering over that button. With a simple push, she could call Bruce, catch a helicopter ride and hope Joker didn't bring any rocket launchers to the asylum. She could fly back to her gilded cage, the only place she'd felt safe in her entire life. Even the worst fight with Bruce was nothing compared to an easy day with Joker. She remembered so many nights sitting in the dark, waiting for Joker to arrive. She would sit in utter silence listening for the telltale click of the lock, and the way he opened the door. She could tell what kind of mood he was in with those two sounds alone, and she always listened carefully so she could be prepared. Volatility was so much a part of his nature that she had allowed herself none. Not back then. Bruce had changed things. For the first time in her life, she felt safe enough to throw a cup if she was angry with him, knowing he could duck out of the way and wouldn't throw it back. Of course, she'd never done such a thing because Bruce never deserved it. Well, he had, but he was always so contrite and apologetic that she was charmed out of throwing anything. In contrast, she cringed just imagining throwing a cup at Joker's head. He'd have ducked out of the way, too, laughed and then thrown a knife right back. She could picture it so vividly she could almost hear the dull thud of the knife landing in the wall just inches from her head. Joker wouldn't kill her over a cup, but she'd only get one warning. Hell, his way of inserting himself back into her life, of 'apologizing' after pretending to be dead, ended with her face slammed against a door and bruises on her arms.

So why couldn't she push the damned button?

He'd told her to choose, but she was lying to herself if she really believed she had a choice. Even if he truly let her choose, he was like the worst kind of drug, euphoric highs and hellish lows, without which she felt dead. Bruce had patched the need well, but he couldn't compare. No one could compare. It was too much to ask of addict to give up their drug when it was freely offered and calling to her. She stared down at her thumb again and realized she was shaking – the battle with herself taking a toll. One part of her mind screamed for her to call Bruce now, while she had a chance. Bruce could keep her safe, even from Joker. She didn't know how, but she knew he could. The other part of her mind stoically accepted that she wouldn't call Bruce - that she would wait for Joker to come to her again like he said he would. That part of her mind didn't scream or yell, confident it would prevail no matter how much she railed against it. With great effort, and a single tear, she moved her thumb away from the button and put the phone on the kitchen table. God help her, but she wanted Joker, and right now she hated herself for it.

Angry with herself, she took off her lab coat and flung it on the floor, tossing her security badge on the table next to her cell phone. She took her hair out of the messy bun and ran her fingers through it, letting it flow freely. Changing out of her work clothes, she threw on black and red yoga pants and t-shirt, then slipped off her dress shoes and put her jewelry back in the little case she carried with her. With no other way to expend her frustrated energy, she collected her things for several hours until she finally collapsed, exhausted. Her life was packed back up and ready to move – to where she didn't know. It wasn't even dark yet.

The slamming of her door followed by irreverent whistling brought her abruptly to consciousness. Quickly she rubbed her eyes and hauled herself upright, keeping an eye on the 'guard' that had come through the door. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself, which boded poorly for someone. He tossed the guard hat over his shoulder and started unbuttoning the shirt, occasionally looking up to flash a wild grin at her.

She couldn't help but trace the scars across his chest with her eyes. Although familiar, she'd forgotten just how many littered his body. Bullet wounds, bite marks, cuts, and scars she couldn't even identify made up his geography. Her own body was so different, a clear sign of the completely opposite life she'd lead... she had very few scars and none of them were from any kind of battle, unless losing to the sharp corner of her coffee table counted. By comparison, her skin was a clean slate, a flat, unmarked map... remarkable considering who she'd slept next to for years. Despite his affinity for knives, he'd have shot her, or tossed her off a building, before he cut her open. He could easily have killed her on a whim, or because she got in his way, but it would have been a quick death – not the lingering torture of his knife. He said knives were personal, emotional, and slow. Oh, sure, she knew if she'd ever pushed him far enough he'd have killed her that way too, but she'd never crossed him, and he wouldn't cut her just to cut her. She was his escape from from all that, at least before. Now he wanted to drag her along into the fray, and she wondered how long before her body looked like his. She shuddered at the idea, and when she looked up, she realized he'd been watching her for some time.

Casually, he flung the guard shirt to the floor and flopped down on the couch next to her, hands behind his head and legs stretched out before him. He hadn't broken his gaze however, and try as she might, neither could she.

"Something wrong, Harlequins?"

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out – she simply shook her head no, while he stared at her impassively. He raised a single finger and pointed it at her slowly. "Wanna try that again?"

Wincing, she forced out her thoughts. "I just forgot how many scars you have."

"Ah, getting sentimental on me?" In a flash, he grabbed her face with onehand, squeezing her cheeks painfully. "Or are you scared?"

Jerking her head out of his grasp, she stretched her cheeks to ease the tension. "You have more than I remembered, is all."

"I might have got one or two new ones along the way."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you did, how could you not?"

He grabbed her wrist and jerked her closer, forcing her to put a hand on his thigh to keep from ending up with her face in his lap. He tapped her on the forehead. "I saw you thinking… things. What were you _really_ thinking about, hm?"

She looked away. "I was wondering if I was going to end up looking like you." He scowled at her and dropped her hand, pushing her back. "Worried about your pretty face?"

"No… Yes." She fluttered her arms in frustration. "I don't know what you want me to do. You want me to blow up buildings now, maybe terrorize some people? I don't know how to do that! You fight with Batman and hold your own, most of the time, but I wouldn't last half a second. And the people you 'work' with – I don't even want to think about what they might do." He scowled for a second longer and then started laughing at her, slapping his knees and shaking his head. She frowned. "I don't know what you think is so funny."

"You harlequins. You don't see it yet, but you will." He stopped laughing suddenly, and she instinctively tensed. He reached out and grabbed her again, this time pulling her to him more slowly. "Harls, do you trust me?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

She thought about all the times he'd jerked her around, literally as well as emotionally. Still, he'd never lied to her. He even had a plan for her when he faked his own death, even though he didn't see fit to tell her about it ahead of time. He sent Batman to her of all people, to pull her up out of the mess he knew he'd be leaving behind. Earlier, he was arrogant and aggressive, but he backed off before really hurting her. More importantly, he knew how to size people up. He wouldn't expect her to do something she couldn't do, and he probably knew what she was capable of better than she did. She felt a smile slowly growing.

"Yeah, I do."

"Good. Then shut up and quit worrying about it." He leaned back and eyed her appraisingly, and she looked away under the scrutiny. "We, ah, have to fix this problem you have."

She looked up at him, alarmed. "What problem?"

"This Bruce Wayne problem. I told you, you used to be so quiet, and I liked that about you Harls, I really did. Now, you're all full of these little anxieties."

She jerked her arms free and poked him in the chest. "It wasn't Bruce Wayne who did this to me, it was _you_! You're the one who went off and left me thinking you were dead."

"Could happen any time."

"I know that, but you went and turned everything upside down, and you're surprised?"

He shook his head. "It's what I _do_."

She glared at him, voice rising. " know that too, but not to me. You're not supposed to do it to me."

"Shh shh sssh. You landed with both feet on the ground, and in a millionaire's mansion." He threw his hands up in the air. "I thought you'd be happy I was taking you with me this time! Sheesh, you can't please some people."

He flashed a wicked grin, and she shook her head, trying to hold back a smile. She hated encouraging him, but couldn't help herself. "Fine. You win, as always. I won't say another word about how crazy this plan is."

He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward, slamming her into his chest. "It's not a plan, Harls. Its just the way things are – you belong with me."

Shakily, she met his darkened gaze. "I know.

"I don't think you do."

_He grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her lips to his, raising them both off the couch. She wasn't aware of walking, too wrapped up in kissing him, touching him, until she bumped into the bed and fell backwards, him landing on top of her. His body felt like a furnace, and his touches left fiery trails in their wake. She was vaguely aware of an annoying separation between them, and she wriggled to remove her shirt. She wanted skin on skin, she wanted to feel the scars under her fingers and against her chest – she wanted him intimately close. He must have felt the same, because soon all the barriers were removed and she wound around him like a snake, arms and legs linking around his, pulling him closer. She relished the sound of his harsh breathing near her ear, and the way his chest tightened and heaved. She loved the way his wiry muscles rippled with effort as they surrounded her, and she loved the thin sheen of sweat that covered his body, and hers. This body surrounding hers, penetrating hers, was her whole world and she could loose everything else gladly as long as she didn't loose this… him._

_"God, Harls…. I missed you."_

_She smiled against his cheek, knowing he wouldn't even remember speaking later. Only in these moments would he loose himself enough to not watch what he said. She rarely responded, never wanting to interrupt the connection, but she did capture his mouth in a passionate kiss, which seemed to fuel his fire even more. She felt the flare of her own fires building with his renewed efforts, and she lost her own consciousness – not knowing if she were speaking or moving, completely immersed in the sensations until she slid over the edge and went freefalling into the vast abyss of rhythmic pleasure. As she slowly floated back inside her body, she felt him tense and curse, shaking into his own oblivion, and she held on tightly. She didn't want to loose her grip._

Unfortunately, intimate moments were just that. He shoved himself onto his back away from her, panting and stretching. She knew, if she looked, his face would reflect the casual aggression he always showed afterwards. He never wanted her to feel too comfortable, or too close. He had to keep her at arms length most of the time, and she let him, knowing it was just his way. This time, however, he surprised her and gruffly jerked her over, tucking her into his side. She fit perfectly, and she didn't want to be anywhere else. For the first time she could remember, she fell asleep with his arm around her and didn't wake up alone until hours later, when his mad laughter from the living room brought her out of a rapidly disappearing dream. She smiled to herself and went back to sleep.

* * *

With a growl, he flipped the phone closed, cutting off Harley's pleasant voicemail asking him to leave a message, which he'd already heard three times. Tossing the phone into the passenger seat, he shifted gears and slid the tumbler around a corner. He'd been too late, always one step behind, never able to catch up with the man behind the robberies and murders. He was frustrated and tense. The crimes were escalating ever higher, starting with a bank job and ending, most recently, with an entire shipping yard on fire. The worst part was knowing it wasn't over yet – he was being strung along and he couldn't get ahead of it. He glanced at the phone. Harley. She'd been on his mind too much, especially now that she'd taken the insane offer from Jeremiah Arkham. He scowled. If given the opportunity, he could gladly wring the man's neck.

Still, he knew it was his own fault. All of it. His concentration was too scattered, pulled to the asylum, constantly wondering what was happening within its walls. Yet for all the time he spent worrying about Harley, he hadn't even been home much over the weekend when he could have seen her. That's when the shipyard fires had started and a riot on top of them. He let GCPD handle the riot, but he needed to investigate the fires before the detectives got their crime lab people involved. He couldn't focus on the cases, and he couldn't focus on Harley – everything was constantly just out of reach. He glanced at the clock, and with grim determination, slammed on the brakes and turned the tumbler around. He couldn't visit her as Bruce Wayne, who'd told Harley he was completely inundated with a big business deal, but Batman could do whatever he needed - and he needed to see Harley.


End file.
